The Last Trip
WHEN MURDO WOKE up it was coming daylight and the Germans were passing to and fro through the hall with mugs of coffee and bowls of porridge. Their clothes had dried and once more they were warmly clad. Carl Voss was without his trousers, which to his fury he had found chill and sodden in the corner where Murdo had dropped them the evening before. With bare legs he mounted the stairs to seek a pair of Donald’s in the bedroom.
It was a wild cold dawn. Murdo clutched a blanket about himself and went to the window. He rubbed the melting ice from a pane and peered out. The snow had ceased during the night and the wind had abated, though still it rattled the windows from time to time and moaned in the chimney. Across the hillside white swathes, caught in gusts, swept up and vanished into the air. Closer at hand the flakes swirled in mad fragmentary dances, then fell softly into the pattern of ridges. At the bottom of the walls the drifts lay deep, the fence posts and the side of the stone barn were plastered white. It was freezing hard. A gull swooped low, its wings juddering, then caught the wind and whirled away out of sight.
The blanket was warm, and wrapping it tightly about himself, Murdo went outside to the toilet at the end of the house, for there was no bathroom. The snow was icy on his feet, and the wind bitter. Behind him, right at his heels, Carl Voss strolled casually with his hand inside his jacket holding the revolver. Only one neighbour’s cottage was to be seen from this position, and the curtains were still closed. Murdo was glad when they got back into the house.
A large saucepan of porridge, still a quarter full, stood on the Calor gas ring in Donald’s kitchen. The man who had made it was not very experienced, for the grey mess was lumpy and thick. Murdo lit the gas beneath it, so that the porridge was at least hot, and squashed out some lumps against the side of the pan. With a good sprinkling of salt and a cup of tea it made a fair breakfast.
The day passed slowly and uneventfully. It was still much too stormy to consider launching the boat. Back at the cave, Knut would assume they were sitting out the gale on Island Roan: on the island the last of the guns and the four remaining Germans could only wait.
Henry Smith made a courtesy call upon the lady whose house Hector had visited the night before. He told her that Hector had a touch of cold, and was taking the chance to spend most of the day in bed. There was no need to call, they were fine and had all they needed. She was charmed by her polite, gentlemanly visitor.
The Germans took it in turn to keep watch over the boat lest a crofter, searching for strayed sheep, should see the pile of crates from the cliff top and go down to investigate.
Steadily the wind abated, and by mid-afternoon the skies were clearing. The thermometer fell. Ice formed thickly on the inside of the windows in every room, save the very warm sitting room they were occupying, and even there, by the time they came to draw the curtains, it was eating its way towards the middle of the panes.
They prepared to spend a second night in the house at Clerkhill.
The following morning broke clear and bright. The wind was light and the sea had fallen sufficiently for them to think of taking the boat on to Strathy before evening. The waves continued to abate throughout the day, and late on that Thursday afternoon, as purple shadows were rising in the east beyond the snowfields, and the frosty sunset glimmered pink and green above the bay, they tidied Donald’s house, gathered their few belongings together, and set off for the little cove.
The snow was tracked with footprints where the German guards had made their way to the boat during the two days of their stay. Soon they were all on the beach, and while the others removed the frozen canvas from the stack of boxes and carried them down to the water’s edge, Murdo, under the surveillance of Carl Voss, began to clear the boat of snow with a fla’ piece of driftwood. It was cold work. Soon his hands were red and aching as he scooped the snow up and flung it over the gunwale.
Twenty minutes later Lobster Boy was in the water and the cases were securely lashed into place. Murdo shoved off, the waves foaming about his sea-boots and making the boat leap so that he could hardly hold her bows-on. Quickly he clambered aboard, keeping his legs dry. Carl Voss watched him carefully from the stern. Sigurd pulled them clear of the shore with the oars, and held the boat steady while Hector tinkered with his engine. At the second push of the starter it coughed into life: a cloud of blue smoke rose into the fading light and drifted over the water. Soon they were away, heading out into the sea from which, not two days before, they had been so glad to escape.
The Lobster Boy pitched and yawed, sometimes even violently, but no water came aboard, and steadily she ploughed her way out into the open sea. Darkness fell and the brilliant icy stars came out, spangling every last black corner of the night.
An hour and a half later Strathy Point was looming up on the starboard bow. Then they were heading down towards the beach.
The cases were soon stacked, and everyone was more than ready for the hot soup which Knut, the bearded guard, had prepared while they worked. As they ate, Hector and Murdo were positioned on the boulders at the inner end of the cave. There was no chance of making a break for it. There never had been.
Then they were heading back into the ocean, on their way to the island for the last time. Hector and Murdo were in the stern, Henry Smith and Carl Voss, wearing the two life-jackets, sat amidships. The revolver rested in Voss’s lap.
Hector was unusually preoccupied. Sitting with his arm along the tiller he steered the boat unconsciously. Once or twice he raised his eyes to Murdo, but said nothing, and soon looked away again.
Only at last, as Island Roan rose up ahead, did he reach over and touch Murdo lightly on the arm. The two Germans, lit by the rising moon astern, were gazing forward at the snow-capped island.
‘How good a swimmer are you – really?’ Hector breathed, as
Murdo leaned towards him.
Surprised by the question Murdo shrugged fractionally. ‘Quite good – about average.’
‘Could you swim in a sea like this?’
Murdo’s eyes widened, He nodded. ‘Yes, a bit, I should think. Where?’
‘Near Strathy Point.’
Concentrating on Murdo and the Germans for’ard, Hector had let the Lobster Boy wander a few degrees off course. He corrected it with a short movement of the tiller.
Henry Smith glanced back, heavy with sea-sickness, saw that everything was all right and turned once more towards the island.
‘There’s a place where I can put the boat on the rocks. You should be able to swim ashore safely. It may be the last chance we’ll get.’ Hector laid a hand on Murdo’s leg. ‘You’re sure – about the swimming?’
Murdo swallowed and nodded, though his stomach turned over and a wave of blackness passed behind his eyes. He had known, since he was a child, that one day something would happen to him on those rocks near the point. He had always feared them. In his mind’s eye he saw the swell and suck of the wicked currents. He took a deep breath to steady his voice.
‘Aye, I’ll be fine,’ he said.
Carl Voss was peering in their direction. He saw their silhouettes together, whispering, but could hear nothing, for their soft voices were well covered by the roar of the engine.
‘You know the Geo Borbh?’ Hector said. ‘Across the hill from Andy Mackenzie’s?’
‘Aye.’
‘Just off there. Get yourself ashore and make your way up to the phone box... We’ve got to try, but take care, boy. Look after yourself.’ Hector’s voice broke a little and he cleared his throat, hiding it behind a bout of coughing, ‘After all, I’m wanting you to paint the barn when we get a dry day.’
Murdo smiled slightly, not for a moment taken in by Hector’s joking. Touched and embarrassed he nodded, then looked away.
They moored Lobster Boy in the pool and Henry Smith left Carl Voss covering the two prisoners while he went up the cliff steps to bring his men down from the house.
They were half expecting him and it was not long befor
e he was back at the jetty, accompanied by big Bjorn, Gunner the seaman, balding Haakon, and happy red-haired Dag. Behind them the deserted house was left as they had found it: every last trace of their presence had, so far as possible, been removed. Henry Smith had informed them of the changed circumstances, and now they gazed with different eyes, almost warily, at Hector and Murdo, and the gun in Voss’s hands. Bjorn saw the boy’s black eye and bruised face, and his normally good-natured expression tightened as he looked across at his violent comrade.
With bold hostility, Voss stared back at him for a moment. Then he turned away, unbuttoning his coat, and pushed the revolver back into its holster.
The antagonism between Bjorn Larvik and Carl Voss was well known to everyone. Henry Smith regarded them for a moment, then ignored it and addressed himself to Hector.
‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what I said two nights ago, in your friend’s cottage,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I think we can trust you to load the cases and tie them down without any ‘accidents’. The pool appears very deep. I imagine there is plenty of room down there for more than a case or two of guns, if the need arises. But why the pool – there is a lot of water and a good fast current any- where off the island. Carl, by the way, has views about that: he was telling me on the way across. But I’m inclined to give you a chance. So, it’s up to you.’
Hector climbed down into the boat and took the case that Murdo very carefully handed to him. Soon the last of the arms and the remainder of the Germans’ provisions were neatly stowed, covered with the tarpaulin, and securely lashed to the bottom boards.
A few minutes later they were heading out between the towering cliffs of the bay for the last time. Ahead lay the twelve mile haul to Strathy Point. The slight but withering east wind blew straight in their faces.
‘Well, that’s that!’ Henry Smith rubbed his hands together gladly. ‘The end of that wretched island.’ He smiled mockingly at Hector.
The old fisherman raised his grey eyebrows non-committally and looked ahead, holding his boat carefully into the bow sea so that he got the maximum pitch and swing for the benefit of the unaccustomed Germans.
He was successful, and soon Henry Smith and Haakon were being sick, and to Murdo’s delight Carl Voss too began to look unwell, yawning and belching, always a sure sign.
‘Are you not feeling too good?’ he called sympathetically above the noise of the engine. ‘What you need is a dish of nice fat pork with plenty of dripping, and a couple of greasy eggs and some fried bread to settle your stomach.’
Though unfortunately his words did not have the desired effect upon Voss they were not wasted, for Henry Smith suddenly moaned afresh, clutched his middle, and hung wretchedly over the side.
Otherwise the trip was uneventful. But as the miles passed, Murdo felt his fear mounting. In his mind’s eye he visualised the crags, the sudden plunge into that icy water, the struggle through crashing waves and rocks to the shore. At the same time he could hardly believe it, for Hector and the Lobster Boy were one of his earliest memories; indeed, they had been sailing out of Strathy since his father was a boy. Somehow the boat seemed invincible. Beneath his feet the weather-beaten timbers flung the seas aside with familiar ease; the sturdy prow lifted above the waves, a glinting silhouette against the moonlit sky, then plunged down into the trough; the old engine throbbed powerfully, never faltering.
A mile or so short of Strathy Point, Hector leaned forward and eased back the throttle. The engine note fell.
‘What are you doing?’ Henry Smith fought back his sickness and called out warningly.
Hector indicated Haakon. ‘We won’t jump about so much if I cut the revs a bit,’ he said.
Relieved, but still watchful, Henry Smith nodded.
Fifteen minutes later Hector swung to starboard around the ragged rocks of the point, three miles out into the open sea. The lighthouse, unlit for the duration of the war, gleamed white, high above them on top of the cliffs. He kept well out, but once clear of the point pulled close in towards the shore, then straightened out on the long run home.
Suddenly Murdo found himself on the verge of panic, his lips were trembling and his heart thudded. Hector’s words kept running in his mind: ‘… you’re sure?… you should be able to swim ashore… look after yourself.’ He watched the sea foaming over the rocks, saw it breaking up the face of the cliff. The old fear of his child- hood. His stomach cramped, making his shoulders fetch forward.
‘You are very close to the rocks.’ Henry Smith’s voice rang out from near the bow.
‘Get a bit of side shelter,’ Hector called back. ‘Make the most of it.’
‘Pull out a bit,’ Henry Smith shouted.
‘It’ll be worse further out,’ Hector said, taking no notice.
As if to make his point more clear, at that moment Haakon leaned over the gunwale once more, and retched.
Not satisfied, Henry Smith moved closer.
Hector laughed. ‘Do you think I’m going to put her on the rocks?’ he called. ‘Some chance while you and bully boy, there, are wearing the life-jackets.’
Henry Smith stared at him for a moment, then turned and surveyed the moonlit sea ahead. It was clear. He said no more and settled himself to watch.
Hector managed the boat perfectly, turning her to ride the mounting waves so that it appeared they really were gaining some shelter from the proximity of the windward crags.
‘A bit less than a mile,’ he whispered to Murdo. ‘Remember to loosen your sea-boots.’
The coast crawled past. The waves, meeting the off-shore current, sucked and seethed along the fangs of broken rock – glinting where the black water climbed a sheer cliff face, shining white as it swilled in tumult over ragged outcrops.
Hector’s face brushed the back of Murdo’s hair. ‘Coming up now,’ he breathed. ‘When I give the word try to keep them back.’
‘All right,’ Murdo whispered.
Wide-eyed he stared at the little bay slipping towards them. The entrance was flecked with white. Beneath his feet the little boat leaped and fell, holding back the bottomless water beneath. Never had the boat’s planking seemed so frail and so precious.
The rocks at the mouth of the bay came nearly abeam, thirty yards off to starboard.
‘Wait… wait.’ Hector’s breath was warm in Murdo’s ear, ‘Wait. Right!… Now!’
Suddenly Hector flung the tiller hard across and kicked the throttle wide. The engine roared and the little boat swung in a tight circle to starboard, heeling over, heading straight for the rocks.
With cries the Germans leapt to their feet. Someone cannoned into Voss as the boat tossed, and they fell. Another man was struggling forward. Murdo rushed towards him, trying to block the way with his body. A heavy fist crashed against his ear. He felt something soft against his legs and kicked it. There was a shot and a cry of pain from in front of him. The boat lurched with the struggle and dipped violently. Someone clambered past him over the engine casing. He flung out a hand, caught the man by the ankle and heaved. The man slipped and fell half on top of him. He fought to regain his feet. Then suddenly, with a sickening crunch, the Lobster Boy ran headlong into a wicked fang of rock.
Waves flooded in, men staggered with the impact and fell in a tangled heap. Murdo saw a figure lurch backwards and go over the side, head-first into the black rock. All was confusion. Waves swilled, foaming to his knees. Then the boat was gone, and he was struggling in the icy water.
His clothing hampered him, the great boring waves thrust him downwards, tumbling and fighting, unable to breathe. Water everywhere. Suddenly his head was clear for an instant and he gasped a lungful of air, and half a lungful of water as the waves tugged him down again. He struggled with his sea-boots; one came off, the other stuck. With bursting chest he kicked out wildly and his head rose above the surface. He opened his mouth, but before he could breathe another wave swept over him, bearing him down, a wild jumble of arms and legs and clothes, spinning helplessly, n
ot even knowing where the surface was. Still he kicked out. Thick seaweed brushed around his face. He pushed it away, but it was everywhere, all around him, trapping his hands, arms, legs. Down, down, down the waves bore him. His head reeled. His lungs were on fire. Blind in the black water, choking, writhing, he felt his senses slipping away. A warm glow started somewhere at the back of his brain, sliding down into his muscles, comforting, easing – peace. He gave himself up to the water.
A Bay Sheathed in Ice
SUDDENLY, WITH A SHOCKING pain, something smacked Murdo across the front of his face. His back wrenched and twisted. Again the hard thing struck and ripped him across the ear like fire. Blindly, instinctively, he flung out both arms and encountered rock. Unaware of razor-sharp barnacles he clung tight. His head was clear of the water. Lungfuls of sweet air struggled into his body. The waves poured, foaming, across him. He hung on, every muscle forcing, clinging, against the rock. The water receded. Flashes of sense glimmered at the back of his brain and he crawled higher. More waves seethed around him, no longer cold. Flashes of vision – black rocks, tumbling water, white hands. The waves dropped away and he crawled higher still and clung there, mouth and face against the harsh stone, shuddering violently.
He had panicked, and it came again, gluing his arms and legs, stomach and chest and face to the streaming rock. But slowly it passed, very slowly, ebbing like a spent flood from mind and limbs. The waves no longer broke over him. Raising a streaming head, Murdo looked around the terrible place. He breathed convulsively, nearly sobbing. The beautiful air pumped into his lungs. He peered into the moonlit darkness. Cliffs rose sheer from the tossing sea thirty yards away. He was on a rocky outcrop, the black surging water all around. Something pale and sluggish, a lolling white face and shoulders, washed heavily on the waves a few yards off. It disappeared. Further over, to the left of the exploding crags, the waves broke with a roar on the boulders of a small beach.
Murdo's War Page 11