The Spuddy

by Lillian Beckwith

  The crash as she came down on the rocks flung Jake to the deck while the mast came smashing through the top of the wheelhouse. For a moment he lay sick and stunned, blood welling from a great gash on the side of his head and then he was desperately struggling to his feet to slam the engine into full astern. The propeller raced uselessly and as the sea tumbled away he saw that the ‘Silver Crest’ was caught amidships by two great fangs of rock that were holding her above the water like a priest holding up a sacrifice. Jake moaned. Why hadn’t he gone out more before turning? How had he come to so badly misjudge his distance from the shore? The bloody snow! His stomach burned with pain and he clutched at it as he retched blood on to the deck. Staggering forward he clung on as another mountainous sea raced and reared to smash itself over the rocks and then all Jake was conscious of was the assault of the thundering water and the screams of his boat as she keeled over and the sea and the rocks began rending her apart. Gasping he lay on the tilting deck his hands gripping the capping while the realisation that his boat was doomed soaked into his brain as pitilessly as the chill sea soaked into his weakening body. He glimpsed the rocks again spiking through the snarling water; grasping, greedy rocks. Jake’s breath came in sobbing coughs. They’d got his boat and now they wanted him. Those rocks, they wanted him all right. The thought hammered itself repetitively into his brain and he thought of his wife who didn’t want him and of his infant son who didn’t need him. Suddenly he remembered the Spuddy. Where was he? Could he still be down in the fo’c’sle’? Gulping and gasping Jake pulled himself along hanging on to the fallen mast only to find that the seas were breaking through the fo’ c’sle hatch. The Spuddy must have got out, Jake reasoned. Was he even now swimming for the shore?

  Jake hoped so but even as the hope entered his mind he saw the Spuddy.

  When the mast had fallen the dog must have come up from the fo’c’sle and been trying to reach him in the wheelhouse and he lay now his hind-quarters pinned down by the wreckage. The Spuddy’s mouth was open and he might have been howling though Jake could hear nothing above the savagery of the sea. ‘All right, Spuddy!’ he panted. Slithering and clawing his way along the deck he at last managed to insert his shoulder under the mast and heaved with all his remaining strength. Weak as he was the effort was enough to release the Spuddy and the next sea did the rest, washing the dog into the water. Relieved, Jake saw that he could still swim. The Spuddy might stand a chance of getting ashore alive. A dog’s chance. No more. In the next instant he perceived the Spuddy was trying to turn to swim back to him.

  ‘No, Spuddy! No!’ Jake’s voice came out in a rasping shout. ‘Ashore Spuddy! Ashore! Skipper’s orders!’ Through a thinning swirl of snow Jake thought he caught a glimpse of land. He retched again and slowly his hands released their grip of the boat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Back in Rhuna the crew, caught up in the jollity of the wedding, failed to notice the passing of the time and the threatening storm. Even Andy was too entranced by the old fiddler’s playing to give a thought about getting back to the Spuddy. He had seen the sky darken and a few snow-flakes whirling about but the house in which they were being entertained was tucked in behind the hill out of sight of the sea so it was not until they judged the time had come for them to return to the boat and they had rounded the shoulder of the hill that they became aware of the full force of the blizzard. When they reached the shore they were concerned to find that the sea was breaking so viciously over the shingle it was impossible to launch the dinghy. Andy could not hide his anxiety but the crew, feeling guilty over their inattention to the weather, tried to reassure themselves that there was nothing to worry about. When the tide ebbed there’d be a chance to launch the dinghy, they consoled themselves. And this blizzard couldn’t last long, surely: not coming down as thickly as it was. They accepted the hospitality of a cottage near the shore where they drank tea and smoked and bit their fingernails and stared as though hypnotized at the snow masked windows. From his corner beside the fire Andy watched, feeling their unspoken apprehension. It was almost dark before the blizzard ceased and the sea was calm enough for them to get out in the dinghy and by that time there was no ‘Silver Crest’ in the bay.

  ‘She must have started draggin’ her anchor an’ so he thought he’d best get out of it,’ suggested the youngest member of the crew.

  ‘I daresay that’s the way of it,’ agreed the cook expressionlessly.

  ‘In that case he’ll soon be back to pick us up,’ said the oldest and they clustered around the dinghy, kicking at the shingle, stamping their cold feet; flapping their arms; smoking; muttering; exclaiming and all the time staring out across the bay willing the lights of the ‘Silver Crest’ to appear round the point. The wind died to a frosty calm and a full moon rose, polishing the dark rocks against the snowy collar of the bay and still the men waited on the shore, refusing the proffered warmth of the cottage. When the dawn came and there was still no sign of the boat the crew and some of the crofters walked out to the point to scan the sea. What they saw impaled on the jagged rocks sent some of them to summon help while others hurried to search the rocky shores.

  When the sea had flung the Spuddy on the sandy inlet between the rocks on Rhuna’s west coast it was the top of the tide and after dragging himself out of reach of the water he lay quite still. All through the night, oblivious of the thrashing surf, the cold and the pain of his crushed body he waited for the peace he knew would not be long in coming. When dawn came, lifting his head as if for one last look, he saw lying just above the now calm water the body of his skipper. He tried to move, digging his paws into the sand and laboriously, shuddering every now and then with pain, he dragged himself down until he was lying beside Jake. As he nuzzled under the cold hand that had given him so many rough caresses his tail lifted and dropped once and his breath came out in a last long moan.

  Man and dog were still lying together when the search party found them. Gently they moved the body of the Spuddy aside while they lifted Jake on to a makeshift stretcher and carried him away. When they had gone Andy, accompanied by his father who, having been greeted on his arrival in Gaymal by news of the wreck, had hitched a lift on the first boat out to Rhuna, reached the place where the Spuddy lay. Andy’s father let the boy go down to the shore alone and as he watched he saw Andy bend down and tenderly stroke the dog’s wet body. He saw him go then to where the shattered bow of the ‘Silver Crest’ lay where it had been washed ashore; saw him run his hand down the curving stem as he might have run it along the neck of a favourite horse; saw him return to the Spuddy and kneel beside him on the sand. He turned away then so as not to witness his son’s grief and crouching behind a rock he gave his attention to the gulls as they circled low over the shore, listening to the laughter-like mutterings of a couple of black-backs; the loud harsh screams of the herring gulls until, thinking he heard a human shout he looked about him to see who might be coming. He stood up. The shout seemed to be coming from the direction of the shore but he knew there was only Andy down there. Andy and a dead dog. He looked more intently. The shout was unmistakably coming from the shore. ‘No! No! No!’ it was saying over and over again and as Andy, his son, was shaking his fists at the low swooping gulls his mouth was forming the word No! and the sound was without doubt coming from it. He stood in dazed unbelief while he watched Andy pull some string from his pocket, tie one end of it round a boulder and the other end round the Spuddy’s neck. He saw him drag the dog down and into the water and fearful of what might happen he started bounding down to the shore calling ‘Andy! Andy!’ But Andy paid no attention. He knew he had to do this last service for his friend. He must get the Spuddy out to deep-water; deep enough to be out of the way of the gulls and where the boulder would ensure his being carried out to sea by the next die. As his father splashed through the water to his side Andy let go the boulder and the Spuddy. He grasped the hand his father was holding out to him.

  ‘Andy!’ rejoiced his father as they waded ashor
e. ‘You spoke. Did you know?’

  Andy’s hand went to his throat. ‘No!’ he said but he was not answering his father’s question he was still shouting at the gulls.

  ‘But you spoke again then. You really did,’ his father insisted.

  ‘Yes,’ said Andy experimentally and feeling the strange throbbing that had begun in his throat he said ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, over and over again as together he and his father climbed out of the bay and tramped back across the snowy moors.

  Copyright

  First published in 1974 by Hutchinson & Co.

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  www.curtisbrown.co.uk

  ISBN 978-1-4472-1691-9 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-1690-2 POD

  Copyright © Lillian Beckwith, 1974

  The right of Lillian Beckwith to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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