Unless, of course, this call was yet another cruel hoax.
On their way out to sea, Macready scanned the surface. There was nothing. No sign of a small craft. The wind was strengthening by the minute almost and the conditions at sea approximated to Force Ten on the Beaufort Scale with a wind speed in excess of fifty knots and waves in the open sea of over thirty feet from trough to overhanging crest.
Grim-faced Macready set a course towards the mouth of the Wash, every moment taking him further away from the area where Julie might be.
Jack Hansard entered the shop at the Visitors’ Centre and approached a man leaning against the counter talking to the woman behind it.
‘I’m looking for a Mr Raymond Graham.’
The man straightened up. ‘That’s me.’
‘Ah!’ There was satisfaction in the coastguard’s voice and he smiled at the stranger. ‘You don’t know how relieved I am to see you waiting here, sir. We’ve launched the lifeboat on the strength of your call …’
For a moment the man looked worried. ‘Oh dear. I only hope I’m right.’
Jack Hansard reassured him. ‘No matter, sir, as long as you genuinely thought you saw something unusual out there, then we must take action. The snag is, you see, we’ve been having several hoax calls and from this area, and when your call came through—’ Jack spread his hands—‘well, we just couldn’t be sure, you see …’
The man’s expression lightened. ‘Oh I understand …’
‘Excuse me,’ the woman said, a little hesitantly. ‘ But I couldn’t help overhearing. We had something happen here about two hours ago. A girl came rushing in here and phoned for the ambulance. She’d found a young lad on the marsh—just over the river—badly burned in the face. She reckoned him and a girl with him had been setting off flares.’
‘Really?’ Jack was interested immediately. ‘Was it the girl with the boy who phoned?’
‘No—oh no, it was Mr Macready’s daughter who telephoned.’
‘Julie? Julie Macready?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thanks very much, love.’ He turned back to the man. ‘Let’s go and take a look.’
Outside they climbed into the coastguard’s landrover and Jack Hansard drove on to the bridge. Here he paused and glanced to right and left briefly, up and down river, hoping to see a sailing-dinghy that could be the one belonging to Julie Macready’s friend, moored in the shelter of the River Dolan.
Several boats were moored there, but Jack knew this district well enough to recognise most of them as permanent moorings. Although he had not actually seen the boat he was now looking for, he knew roughly what to look for.
There was no sign of an unfamiliar day-boat of the right size anywhere along the river-bank.
He sighed inwardly. He had so hoped to be able to report back to a worried Macready that his daughter was safely sheltering down at the Haven.
Now he could not do so.
Surely they had not put out to sea again. Julie knew better than to do that in this weather.
‘I was over there—just near the mouth of the river,’ the man, Raymond Graham, was saying. ‘And I saw a funny sort of light go up over there.’ He was pointing in the direction, Jack knew, of the Lynn Well Lanby.
‘Thank you, sir. You’ve been a great help.’
‘Well—I do hope so. Is that all?’
‘I think so, sir. Do you want a lift back to town?’
‘No, it’s quite all right, thanks, my car’s here—on the car park.’
‘Right you are then, sir,’ Jack said as the man got out of the cab. ‘ Many thanks.’
Jack Hansard turned the landrover and went along the river bank. He would just take one more look for Julie before he radioed Macready.
Out at sea, the going was very rough. Pete responded as a call came in from the coastguard.
‘… Reference sighting of red flares. This looks like a genuine distress signal. The caller was waiting at the Point and according to information he gave me, the signal appeared to be in the area of the Lynn Well Lanby.’
Pete made the usual reply and added, ‘… We are on course for the Lanby. Over.’
But Jack still had something else he must say and at his next words Pete turned towards his coxswain. ‘Jack must want a link call, Mac. He’s asking for channel six.’
When all rescue broadcasting was carried out on channel sixteen, the request by the coastguard for channel six meant only one thing—he wanted a personal word with Macready.
‘Take over, will you, Fred, for a moment.’ He handed over the wheel to his second coxswain and took the phone from Pete.
‘Hello, Jack. Iain here.’
‘Iain—there’s something you should know.’ Now Jack Hansard was speaking not as coastguard but to his friend, Iain Macready.
‘It seems as if the hoaxer may have been caught. About two hours ago an accident occurred on the marsh. A boy burnt in the face setting off a flare. And the call for the ambulance was made by your Julie. They must have put into the Haven and seen the accident. But, Iain, I’m sorry, the boat’s not here now. I’ve had a real good look around. They must have put back out to sea. In view of the weather conditions, I’m going to report it officially. I’m so sorry …’
‘Thanks, Jack.’
Silently Macready handed the radio/ telephone back to Pete and took the wheel from Fred Douglas.
Macready glanced at Tim. For a moment he thought the boy was about to be sea-sick. Tim’s face was surf-white. Tim—sea-sick? Impossible! Then the older man realised.
Tim had overheard the message from the coastguard and now he too knew that Julie Macready was perhaps somewhere out here in these swelling seas.
With the crack of a pistol shot another wire rope snapped and with a rumble that reverberated through the hull of the ship, a section of the deck cargo shifted and the coaster began to list to starboard. For a while the anchor held but as the weather deteriorated and the seas grew stronger with waves of twenty-five to thirty feet, the anchor could no longer hold the fully-laden coaster and, dragging her cable and now listing heavily to starboard, the Hroswitha lurched nearer and nearer to the sandbanks on the eastern coast of the Wash.
Droysen hacked at the ropes holding the section of packaged timber where two had already broken. Schlick had given him the order to let that section causing the trouble go overboard. The ship tossed about on the ocean like a cork, the seas washing constantly across the deck. Droysen paused, breathing hard and tried again. One rope gave and the package began to slide towards him. He stumbled backwards as the timber slithered into the sea. The boat pitched momentarily upright with the relief of some of the imbalance of weight, but there were still several packages left that needed to be ditched. Once again the ship settled back to her starboard list.
Schlick watched from the bridge as Droysen struggled forward again and raised his axe.
The deckhand who had fired the flares sidled into the bridge room. Schlick turned and barked an order, gesticulating towards the cargo deck. ‘Go and help the First Mate with the cargo.’
The deckie looked through the rain-washed screen and fear crossed his face. He shook his head. ‘No—no—I …’
‘Get down there,’ Schlick roared and made as if to lunge towards the Turk. The deckie went.
Schlick watched as the deckhand made his way gingerly along the starboard side of the sloping deck, hanging on to the ropes holding the cargo, towards where Droysen was still hacking away with the axe. At the moment when the deckhand was almost up to the First Mate, the axe chopped the remaining strand of rope and another huge pack began to move towards the edge. The Turk—without the sense to keep out of the way until Droysen had completed his job and caught sight of him—had been trying to cross directly in front of the very pack of cargo Droysen was attempting to release. As the tightly packed timber moved, the deckie squealed as it lumbered towards him, catching him a glancing blow on the arm and—luckily for him—knocking him to one
side on to the deck. It could so easily have carried him overboard with it as it plunged into the water. The ship rolled again and Droysen struggled towards the deckhand. The sea washed over the side, the waves running across the deck, slapping against the remaining packages and then receding, falling back into the sea and threatening to carry the Turk with them. Droysen made a grab at the man and dragged him away from the edge and towards the shelter of the superstructure and then up to the bridge.
If the deckhand had been wet before, he was now absolutely saturated. He was gibbering wildly in his native tongue and clutching his arm. Blood oozed from the wound and ran through his fingers.
‘What the hell …?’ Schlick turned as Droysen and the deckhand lurched in through the doorway.
‘Give him a swallow of that brandy, Captain,’ Droysen requested.
Schlick glanced at the wound on the man’s arm. He could see the injury was serious—the man must obviously be in considerable pain. The Turk continued to jabber. As if in protest against the precious liquid’s being given away, the pain in Schlick’s stomach stabbed relentlessly.
‘Very well—but only a little.’
Droysen sat the deckhand in the chair near the radio, opened the locker and brought out the bottle and gave it to the Turk who uncorked it and raised it to his lips.
‘I must get back to the cargo deck,’ Droysen muttered and once more disappeared out into the storm.
Gulp after gulp of the brandy was disappearing until Schlick shouted, ‘That’s enough.’ But still the deckhand continued to pour the spirit down his throat until incensed, his own pain almost forcing him to double up, Schlick lunged towards the Turk, his huge hands outstretched to grasp the brandy.
A brawl followed, with both men’s hands clamped on the bottle, swaying together, flung from one side of the bridge to the other, they were locked in a macabre dance, whilst the ship heaved and plunged. Out on the wave-lashed, windswept deck, Droysen was flung against the timber and then back again to the deck rail. Clinging to the handrail he glanced towards the bridge, but through the rain he could see nothing. Huge waves were coming at them now and the ship was turning abeam to the waves, in danger of being bowled over by the next wave. Droysen, soaked and gasping for breath, grappled his way back towards the bridge and hauled himself up the ladder. He arrived in time to see the Captain wrestling with the Turk, the bottle of brandy between them.
A thirty-foot wave struck the ship side on and she rolled even further over to starboard, the deckrail almost dipping momentarily beneath the waves. Schlick and the Turk were flung to one corner, the bottle crushed between them. Droysen felt himself slithering across the floor. For what seemed an eternity—though in fact it was only a few seconds—the whole world seemed one of confusion—of flailing arms and legs, of roaring seas and lashing rain and howling wind and the noise of the ship creaking and groaning under immense stress.
This is it, Droysen thought, amazingly clear-headed. The ship is going to capsize and go down.
But with a miraculous instinct for survival, the Hroswitha rolled upright again, the heavy cargo in her hold giving ballast to the stricken vessel.
Droysen scrambled up. Over his shoulder he looked down at the two men extricating themselves from the corner. The bottle had smashed into four pieces. Schlick’s hand was bleeding and the Turk’s cheek as well as his injured arm now oozed blood. Schlick swore in guttural German but the oath ended in a grimace of pain and he clutched his stomach and rolled backwards and forwards on the floor. The Turk eyed Droysen warily.
‘You—out!’ Droysen commanded, shortly, the pale grey eyes in his pale-skinned face glittering menacingly. In contrast the swarthy Turk slunk away, still half-crouching and making a great play of his injured arm.
Droysen glanced down cynically at his Captain, marvelling that when he had first come aboard the Hroswitha he had feared this man who now brawled with a deckhand over a bottle of brandy and rolled about on the floor of his bridge.
Droysen squinted through the glass screen of the wheelhouse. The anchor was no longer holding them, they were being dragged relentlessly by the wind and the heavy seas towards the sandbank known as Middle Bank off the northwest coast of Norfolk.
Then, through the murk, Droysen thought he saw a boat to starboard—a lifeboat, but then it plunged from view and he thought he had wishfully imagined it, his eyes playing cruel tricks.
Then, as the Hroswitha was borne aloft on a wave, he saw below in the trough, the lifeboat battling its way towards them. If he had had the strength left, Droysen would have cheered. As it was all he could do was to cling on and wait. Only moments before he had been sure he faced death, now as the courageous lifeboat approached, he was just as certain that now he would be saved.
At the same moment that Droysen first spotted the rescue boat, aboard the Mary Martha Clamp Chas Blake in the bows glimpsed the coaster.
Macready sent a radio message to Jack Hansard in his landrover on the seafront at Saltershaven and to Breymouth, asking them to relay a message to the Harbour Master at St Botolphs that a coaster obviously making for his port was in distress near the Lynn Well Lanby. The westerly wind and the tidal flow were driving the helpless vessel, bows foremost, towards a sandbank off the Norfolk coast known as Middle Bank.
Macready took the lifeboat around the stern of the coaster and approached it cautiously on the starboard side. The coaster was listing heavily towards them and the only way to get the crew off would be for Macready to put his lifeboat alongside almost directly under the heaving, tilting ship. He could see that part of the deck cargo had already gone and that the remaining packages had shifted and were straining at the ropes. The loose tarpaulin flapped about on the deck and ropes snarled and snaked in the gale-force winds.
He could see no one on the ship. The loudhailer in these conditions was useless. If radio contact was also impossible, it would have to be morse signalling.
‘See if you can raise anyone on her, Pete,’ Macready said. Already his crew were taking up their stations and securing themselves to the lifeboat by clipping a line on to the deck rail.
Pete made the call but when he flicked the switch only crackling and interference filled the cockpit of the lifeboat. He tried again and this time, amidst all the noise came a faint reply in English but with a distinctly German accent.
‘Lifeboat, lifeboat, this is the Hroswitha. Engines—out of action. Captain …’ There then followed a blur of words and the final word … ‘ injured.’
‘What was that?’ Macready asked.
Pete spoke into the phone. ‘ Hroswitha, this is Saltershaven lifeboat. Say again, please. Over.’
‘… Captain—sick. One deckhand—injured.’
Macready’s face was grim. ‘Can they receive a breeches-buoy?’
The reply came back that there was only himself—the First Mate—to receive it. He had no idea where the three deckhands and cook were. Nor could he raise a reply from the engine-room. As the message came piece by piece into the lifeboat’s cockpit, Macready saw four figures appear on the deck of the coaster, clinging to the superstructure and attempting to make their way to the starboard side of the ship nearest to the lifeboat.
‘Four of his crew seem to be looking after number one,’ Macready murmured. Then aloud he said to Pete, ‘Ask him if the Captain can walk.’
Pete relayed the question and Droysen hesitated and then replied negatively.
Macready again shouted to Pete above the howl of the wind and the sea. ‘Ask Breymouth if we can have the helicopter.’
The lifeboat’s responsibility was the saving of life and the coxswain’s one aim was to get the injured and sick members of the crew off the coaster and to hospital as quickly as possible. If he could get the crew aboard the lifeboat and then the helicopter could air-lift the sick captain and the injured deckhand, they would reach hospital so much quicker than if he had to take them all the way back to Saltershaven.
Pete Donaldson requested Breymouth for the ass
istance of the Sea King helicopter, but their immediate reply was that it was already out assisting another lifeboat off the east coast of Norfolk on a service.
‘We’re on our own, then,’ Macready murmured as he received the news. ‘ Right—we’re going in!’
Grim-faced, the lifeboat coxswain inched nearer and nearer, desperately trying to control the bucking Oakley and bring her close to the stricken vessel.
Above the upturned faces of the lifeboatmen, the ship’s four crew members clung to the sloping deck.
Macready’s hands gripped the corded wheel firmly, coaxing, guiding the boat he knew so well. But the wind and the sea seemed determined to wrest the craft from his control, to throw him and his crew into the depths that it took all Macready’s strength, both physical and mental, all his years of experience, all his instinctive feel for his boat to hold her steady and bring her inch by uncertain inch to the side of the crippled ship.
With supreme confidence in their coxswain, the lifeboat crew waited calmly, without a hint of fear on their faces, until he had manoeuvred the boat into the right position.
Only Fred Douglas, the second coxswain, glanced at Macready from time to time, just to be certain he was not needed to assist at the wheel.
The wind hammered at their ears, the salt lashed their eyes and stung their cheeks. There could be no word of command because of the noise of the storm and the ocean. The rescue would be conducted because each man knew his job so thoroughly.
Only young Tim Matthews on his first service kept his eyes darting from one to the other of his senior crew colleagues, anxious not to miss a signalled command, determined to do the right thing at the right time. So long he had waited for this moment and now it was here his only fear was not of the danger but of his failure to do what was expected of him.
Above them, as they moved in towards the ship, audible even over the lashing rain and blustering wind, was the pistol crack of a snapping cable and the rumble of shifting timber.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ Fred Douglas muttered. ‘That lot’s gonna come down on top of us!’
Lifeboat! Page 15