At dusk, entering the candlelit clothing shop with Godwin, the weaknesses of the scheme loomed larger than ever. Even if the ketch and her sonar worked perfectly, there was still the question of whether the men in the water could survive several hours of immersion. Except close inshore, the sea temperature in this part of the Atlantic never rose much above sixteen degrees centigrade. At eleven degrees, the present temperature, an unprotected man would last, at best, thirty minutes before unconsciousness set in. No more than an hour later he would be dead. A wet-suit could not provide adequate protection in water as cold as that. The only solution was a dry-suit, worn over several layers of woollen clothing, sealing in an insulating layer of air.
In some ways, the exposure suits Thaine had designed were even more daring than the ketch herself. They were certainly the critical element in the whole plan. If they leaked, the escape would fail and everyone would die. It was as simple as that.
There were ten suits, individually sized, and they had been made with wonderful skill by Caldecote, a short, dour, bald man who in mainland life had worked as a cutter in a firm of London furriers. In normal times Caldecote and his helpers were responsible for making the villagers’ leather and sheepskin jerkins and jackets, as well as all the other garments and objects fashioned from animal hides. For goatskin Caldecote had perfected a tanning process, using fish gruel, oak bark, salt, and human urine, which left the leather soft, supple, and virtually indestructible. His workshop in the precinct held a large supply of these skins: the finest had been selected to make the suits.
Goatskin, impregnated with grease to render it waterproof, was the best available substitute for the rubber or neoprene material of commercial exposure suits. Tight backstitching with dressed twine fastened the seams, which were welted and sealed with fish-glue. The suit incorporated mittens and bootees; it was donned by means of a slit from neck to navel which was then to be sewn up and sealed. The high collar fitted under and would be glued to an outer collar made from a ten centimetre section of inner-tube rubber – saved from the front wheels of the tractor. There was also a hood, unsealed, consisting of a layer of aluminium foil sandwiched between two layers of goatskin: this was likewise intended to minimize heat loss and hence reduce the chances not only of hypothermia but also of detection by the infrared system.
Fitzmaurice’s suit was brought out for Routledge to try on. Almost black in colour, the outer surface of the leather was a mass of welts and seams, so arranged as to allow free movement of the limbs; inside, the suit was entirely smooth. The smell of the pig grease used in the waterproofing process mingled horribly with a residual stink of the tan-liquor.
Routledge was already dressed in the woollens he would be wearing on the night itself. As he struggled into the suit, as it encased him from the toes upwards, he began to feel more and more like a monster in a horror film.
“Stand up straight, please, Mr Routledge,” Caldecote said, drawing together the temporary fastener at the throat. He looked over his shoulder at Godwin and back at Routledge. “It’ll do,” he said.
“No alterations needed?” Routledge said.
“Maybe a little tighter here on the neck.”
“It’s not going to leak, is it?”
“Eight hours. That’s the longest Mr Thaine says you’ll need to keep dry. We made up a test piece and it stayed dry for a fortnight. Mind you, you’ll be swimming, and we couldn’t really test the neck seal, so I suppose your guess is as good as mine, Mr Routledge.”
Routledge allowed him to fit the hood.
“This wants to come in a bit.” Caldecote removed the hood and gestured at a stool by the wall: creaking softly, Routledge sat down. “Now we’ll see about the fins.”
These were frogman’s flippers unlike any that Routledge had ever seen before. Shoes made of marine plywood fitted over the bootees of the suit and were held in place with straps. The toe of each shoe was produced into a plywood paddle, to which was fastened a longer and broader flap of rubber. This rubber had come from the legs of wellington boots, cut down the back seam and opened out. Laminated, shaped and feathered to form a swimming vane, the laminate had been fixed to the shoes with rivets and, for additional strength, sewn through with dental floss.
The fins were the right size for Routledge’s feet. With minor adjustments to the straps, they would fit him exactly.
Putting on the suit and flippers, finding that they fitted, had raised Routledge’s eligibility for Godwin’s place from the provisional to the certain. This was the crucial moment. Unless he spoke up now, he was committed. Unless he spoke up now, he would have to play his part along with the others.
He remained silent. Caldecote removed the fins and suit.
Godwin gave a barely perceptible nod of approval.
“Can you come again tomorrow at noon?” Caldecote said, as Routledge, preceded by Godwin, thanked him and left the clothing shop. “We’ll have it all ready then.”
“Yes, I’ll be here.”
Crossing the precinct, Godwin said, “When you get back on dry land, open a bottle of champagne for me. And for Fitzmaurice.”
“And for Fitzmaurice. I won’t forget either of you.”
Godwin gave an embarrassed shrug, staving off further talk along these lines, and continued towards the bungalow, where an emergency Council meeting was shortly to be convened; Routledge first went home to change his clothes.
After the meeting Routledge called on King, who had been sitting at his table, writing a long letter to his sister.
“Well?” King said, anxiously. “Are you going?”
“Yes. We leave on Friday night, if the weather’s good.”
King’s face lit up. “That’s great, Routledge. Really great. Of course, it’s terrible about Fitzmaurice, and I’ll be sorry not to have your ugly mug around any more, but all the same …” He smacked his fist into his palm. “Hell’s bells, Routledge, but that’s great! Three days from now you could be on your way!” He peered round at his shelves. “Where’s my Black Label?”
As they sat drinking, Routledge gave King some of the news from the Council meeting. Sibley, Foster, and Appleton had delivered their final reports on the day’s damage. With the death of Fitzmaurice the number of fatalities had risen to seventeen, but was unlikely to rise any further: Bryant and Phelps seemed to be out of immediate danger. All the dead had now been buried. Not counting those who, unseen, had been carried away by their comrades, at least forty outsiders had perished, many of them by burning. The number of injured outsiders was extremely high. Pope was dead and the rest of Houlihan’s brain gang were in disgrace: Feely had been released and was now in charge at the lighthouse, while two of Nackett’s men had resumed control at Old Town. It was unlikely that the attack would be renewed for a long time yet, if ever. Obie, who had supplied this information, had again asked the date of the launch and had again been fobbed off. However, as a reward for his services, and to keep him quiet on the question of future boat-building, he would, despite his past, be offered a probationary place in the Village.
Work was in hand to repair the border fortifications, the main gate, and the electronics workshop. The windmill would be rebuilt as soon as possible. Plans to reduce the impact of the two months’ suspension of helicopter drops had been drawn up and rationing of paraffin had already started.
Thaine was still in the cave. At dusk, the first available time, Betteridge had been sent down there to relieve Chapman and to take Thaine food and drink and news. Chapman had returned to the Village and reported that the ketch was virtually complete and ready to sail. All else being well, she would leave as planned.
Two factors made Friday ideal. First, it was the night of the new moon and hence, secondly, an especially high tide which would reach almost to the cave mouth. This tide was due at forty minutes after sunset, giving slack water at nightfall when the launch had to be made. Slack water would allow the reefs to be negotiated in much greater safety; a strongly ebbing tide might draw the ketch
on the rocks, while a flow tide would make the work of the swimmers much more arduous. The launch had to be made at nightfall in order to get as far as possible from the island by daybreak. Thaine had estimated that it would take no longer than six hours to swim-push the ketch beyond the Magic Circle, giving two hours’ sailing time before sun-up. At a minimum cruising speed of five knots, this would put twenty-five kilometres between the escapers and Sert before the optical cameras again became fully functional. The duration of the whole voyage to Courtmacsherry would be something like forty-eight hours. Landfall would be made on Sunday night.
“That’s a good time to arrive,” Routledge said. “But then leaving on Friday depends on the weather. If the sky’s clear we’ll have to wait. The infrared would be too sensitive to risk it.”
“What’s the forecast?”
“Good. Cloud building from the south. Possibility of rain.”
King’s expression became more serious. “If this getaway comes off, Routledge, you realize it could mean the end of Category Z?”
“I know.” Routledge put down his glass. His adrenalin had run out: and that was all that had been keeping him going. He had not slept in over forty hours.
King, acknowledging this signal that Routledge was about to depart, suddenly smiled and said: “I’ll make you a promise. If ever I’m transferred to the mainland and you come to see me, I might even let you win a game with that pathetic fianchettoed bishop of yours.”
∗ ∗ ∗
The speed with which Routledge had become a member of the crew had left him completely unprepared. It was impossible to adjust so quickly to the knowledge that, one way or another, he now no longer faced a lifetime on Sert.
The remaining hours and days passed so rapidly that there was not enough time for all the farewells he wanted to make: to each of the villagers, to the way of life that had become his, and even to the island itself. When, in the first twilight of Friday morning, he arrived at the cave, he found that in his hurry to be gone he had forgotten to take his leave of the house. Most of his possessions he had bequeathed to King and Prine; most of the rest had gone to the common store. As luggage he had been allowed only a few snapshots and one other item of sentimental value, the belt King had given him at Christmas. Everything else would be provided at the other end. Assuming they got there.
He was the tenth crewman down. Already waiting, sitting close to the walls of the cave, were Thaine, Ojukwu, Redfern, Peagrim, Carr, Blackshaw, Gunter, Reynolds, and Thursby. Chapman had also come down to assist Betteridge, who had been here since Tuesday: the two carpenters would retrieve the trolley after the launch and remain on hand with flashlights and a line in case there was trouble immediately inshore.
“What’s the weather doing?” Thaine said.
“Still cloudy,” Routledge said.
In the dim glow of a solitary pressure lamp, he acknowledged the others and took his place beside Thursby. Before him, dominating the interior of the cave, almost filling its length, stretched the dark, smooth bulk of the ketch.
She exhaled a smell of glue, timber, wax, her own special odour of newness. With her bows tilted downwards, facing the beach and the open sea, she was already anticipating her own departure; she was the source and focus of the rising sense of excitement in the cave. As his eye marvelled at the clean beauty of her lines, Routledge could not help but wonder whether in some inanimate way the ketch could feel the excitement too. Her creation was complete. He could name each of her components, but he could not name what she had now become.
Almost filled as she was with water, she was imposing a tremendous burden on the trolley. The turf-packed tyres had been crushed nearly flat, and for a moment Routledge doubted whether the ketch could be moved at all, still less wheeled down to the sea.
Franks and Appleton arrived five minutes later. Unlike the others, they had not brought dry-suits or fins, for they would be travelling inside the hull, taking turns at the pump and the helm. Appleton had brought a packet of letters from the other villagers to their families and friends, to be posted beyond the censor’s reach, and Franks, from a bulky holdall of food and water, produced a pocket radio which he tuned to BBC Radio Four and placed among the stones near the mouth of the cave.
The first weather forecast of the day came at five to six.
“… light rain already affecting Northern Ireland will spread slowly south and east, reaching Wales and western districts of England by mid afternoon …”
Franks held up his hands to silence the excited reaction to these words.
“… a wet picture I’m afraid for the weekend, extending into Bank Holiday Monday, with temperatures rather lower than the seasonal average.”
After the news bulletin and a farmers’ price report came the shipping forecast. There were no gale warnings. The tinny loudspeaker, driven by a woman’s voice, gave a general synopsis of falling pressure. Then came the vital information, the sea area forecasts for the next twenty-four hours. For sea area Lundy, in which lay Sert, and for the neighbouring areas of Sole, Fastnet, and Irish Sea, the story was much the same. “Lundy, west or north-west three to four, drizzle or rain, poor.” Light winds, rain, poor visibility. Except for the wind direction, conditions could hardly have been better.
The second shipping forecast of the day, broadcast at five to two, showed little change. Routledge did not hear it: he and most of the crew were sleeping, making themselves as comfortable as they could. By the time he awoke, at half-past five, the drizzle had begun. Twenty minutes later the third shipping forecast reported a slight northward shift in the wind, but was otherwise unchanged.
“That’s it,” Franks said, and switched off the radio. “We go tonight. Three and a half hours to launch. We’d better have supper.”
The two paraffin stoves had been lit earlier and now Chapman handed out the coffee. This was the last hot drink Routledge would have until Sunday night. Munching on a sandwich, he looked round at Franks, who was again studying the charts of Star Cove. Routledge looked at Thaine, spooning yogurt from a plastic tub; at Peagrim and Thursby, everyone. He wanted to speak. He wanted to say that, no matter what happened tonight, even if it all went wrong and he drowned, he would rather his end came here, with them, than anywhere else on earth. He wanted to tell them how much the past ten months had meant; how the Village and the island had, completely and irrevocably, changed him and the way he viewed the world. But he could not. He was tongue-tied, silenced by the intensity of his own feelings. His future, formerly so complicated with mainland hopes and dreams and contingencies, had been reduced at last to black and white, to yes or no, on or off, alive or dead. And he was equipped for it. He had been prepared; was ready to accept whatever this voyage held.
As the hour drew nearer he recognized signs of the same fatalism in some of the others, in Reynolds, Blackshaw, Ojukwu, Franks himself.
At seven-thirty they began putting on their suits, having taken a last chance to urinate and void their bowels at the back of the cave. Each man’s suit took twenty minutes to seal. Thaine and Ojukwu helped Routledge. Lying on his back, he watched as they sewed tight the open vent from navel to neck, fitted the welt and worked warm glue into the joint. When that was done he stood up and, placing a tightly fitting polythene bag over his head to protect his ears, pulled on the rolled rubber collar. Thaine spread the glue and carefully unrolled the collar, making a watertight seal.
Carr was the last to be sealed up. Chapman extinguished one of the Tilleys and turned down the other until it gave only the faintest light. He then removed the tarpaulin from the cave mouth.
Franks took a final glance outside. It was quite dark.
“You all know your places,” he said.
Appleton climbed up the makeshift ladder and in through the cockpit hatch.
Franks turned to Chapman and Betteridge. “Goodbye, my friends.”
“Goodbye, Father.”
“Tell Mr Foster I’m thinking of him. Of you all.”
Then Fran
ks too had disappeared inside the hull, and Routledge had taken his position at the third handgrip on the port side, ahead of Peagrim and behind Ojukwu. When each man had fastened his safety line, Chapman and Betteridge added their weight to the stern. “One,” Thaine said. “Two. Three. Now!”
At that moment water began cascading from the sprinklebar along the ridge of the deck. The wheels of the trolley turned, reluctantly at first, and, as the inertia was overcome, more quickly. With all his strength Routledge heaved forward, trying not to trip himself over with his fins, repeating in his thoughts only the most mundane and ridiculous words: “Here goes!”, and they were out of the cave, rain and fresh air on the exposed skin of his face, pushing downhill in pitch darkness across three or four metres of beach. The carpenters had dropped back. The force of a breaking wave momentarily checked the impetus of the run, lifting the bows as they smashed into the surf. Routledge, his feet and ankles and legs hampered by water, continued running for an instant longer before he lost his footing and the boat herself, dragging him forward, pulled him into a horizontal position. The trolley ropes reached their extent. The trolley stopped dead and with a brief, sickening grinding of her twin keels the ketch was free. His suit pressed flat against his skin, Routledge found himself swimming. There was nothing below him. He half rotated, so that his face was clear, and, clutching the handgrip, began furiously kicking.
The reams of calculations he and Thaine had made were coming good. The ketch was stable, almost submerged, with no more than a few centimetres of the hull exposed. Taking water now from a valve in the stern rather than the built-in tank, the sprinklebar continued pouring out its cold, cunning mask of sea. A second valve in the highest part of the deck supplied the cabin with air.
Once they were beyond the surf, Routledge heard Franks’s voice, coming through the polythene-sealed grilles of the helmsman’s two-way address system.
The Penal Colony Page 31