Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

  “We won’t see his lights if this weather hits first,” said Cullen.

  Doyle nodded agreement, keeping his eyes on the sea, watching for where he expected the other trawler to be.

  For half an hour, the squall whipped the sea and rattled the gear on deck. Doyle stood fast, alert, guiding the trawler as she thundered east. Cullen had gone to the back of the cabin, facing the stern, watching the three young crewmen check the gear on deck. They worked steadily back from amidships, painstakingly going over knots and bolts, testing fastenings, holding tight to holds where they could, not speaking, for they couldn’t be heard with the wind and sea. Some of the waves crashed onto the hull and exploded in giant fans of tumbling water over them. They did a final check on the net derricks, then hauled themselves to a hatch on the port quarter. The first man at the hatch opened the small door and gestured the other two inside. Cullen was curious. “Which one is that?” he asked Doyle.

  He turned, leaning slightly across to see better. “That’s Peter. Peter McCann. Came with me a short time ago. Good young fella. Eager to work. Has a brain too.”

  He looked sharply at Cullen.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s in command out there. Himself and the small one are doin’ the work. The big fella at the back, he’s just taggin’ along.”

  Doyle gave a nod and a snort.

  “Aye, I’m afraid so. Seamus Pritchard.”

  “Jim Pritchard’s young fella?”

  “That’s him. How long is it since you’ve seen ’im?”

  “I thought I knew the face the other day in Howth when I boarded.” Cullen was thoughtful. “I wasn’t sure, but I thought I’d seen him somewhere else.”

  “I suppose you recognised the face, but couldn’t place it. It’s been a while since you laid eyes on him. He’s changed, but not that much. Got older.”

  “Hmm.” Cullen looked hard at the curly head disappearing down the hatch. The name. He’d heard it somewhere else. In his position, names tended to stick. It was a habit you got after a while, clocking people into broad files of friend or foe, probable enemy or possible friend. No one was without significance. He turned forward again.

  The spray was flying and the bow lifted and dropped in the tops and troughs as Doyle steered the vessel on. But they could see now. The rain had stopped. The black clouds were passing out from under a morning-grey space in the south. The squall was passing.

  Chapter Seven

  Wills shook his waterproof jacket out. He threw it over a bunk end and shook his head, pushing the water out of his hair.

  “By God, it’s a damp bit of rain and water out there, I’ll tell you.”

  Pritchard wrestled from his jacket and flung it on his bunk. He twirled in anger and exclaimed,

  “Had to be done! My arse! All those fuckin’ fastenings were done yesterday afternoon! That was why we did ’em like we did — to save the trouble of doing it today! You’ve done your bit. Been a good boy. Captain fucking Bligh upstairs has seen you. You’ve got your marks. Satisfied?”

  “No.” McCann’s voice was calm. “I’m not satisfied, Seamus. I’m not satisfied at what you’re saying because I didn’t do it for that reason. I did it because a knot that’s tied on a nice sunny Sunday afternoon mightn’t be the knot that you’d want in a storm. And well you know it.” He eyed Pritchard, who was a full two inches taller than him. But the bigger man turned away and said nothing, then climbed up the ladder.

  It was Wills who finally broke the silence.

  “Tea’ll be ready. Who’s for it?”

  McCann turned back to his own bunk.

  “Tea’ll be fine,” he said. “Two sugars, T.J. I suppose we’d better see if the skipper wants some, and let him know all’s secure outside.”

  Wearily he hauled his jacket off, then his leggings. He felt tired. Not so much from the work on deck, but from the brief exchange with Pritchard. It was over for now, he knew. But he wondered for how long. Their difference had been simmering all morning. From last night, really, when Pritchard had come in with the news of his fight with Wally Malone. McCann knew it couldn’t have been much of a fight; more of a provocation by Pritchard so that Malone had no option but to ask him outside.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” said Wills quietly. “You know what you had to do, what we had to do. Seamus is just bullin’ because he didn’t do it first.” He added,

  “He won’t have looked too good to Cullen either. You know how he likes to talk of his involvement. He’ll be afraid that Cullen will let the others know that he’s not the big shot he likely makes himself out to be.”

  McCann looked up at his pal.

  “D’you think he is? Really involved? I always put that down to talk.”

  “He mightn’t have been before, but he is now. I don’t know how far, but yer man Maguire was around a few weeks ago, lookin’ for recruits. I hear he got a few and I hear that our pal Seamus was eager to join up.”

  “Jesus,” muttered McCann. “I wonder if he knows what he’s getting into.”

  Then he said,

  “I wonder where Steven is off to? God, he’s an odd one, isn’t he?”

  “Well,” said Wills, “there y’are. And there’s others that’d surprise you too. Look at the skipper.”

  “That’s different. They’re old friends. Sean’d have nothing to do with that bombin’ and murderin’. It’s only because he’s known Steven all his life that we’ve got ’im on board.”

  Wills sighed.

  “Believe what you want. But you know how it is with those fellows. Once you’re in, you’re in. And that’s that.”

  McCann looked at him.

  “What do you think? What do you think about it all? Did you ever go along to the meetings or anything? Did you ever think about it? Joining up?”

  Wills laughed.

  “What I think is that the tea is ready. And what I think as well is that for a fella with a lot of sense, you’re asking an awful lot of senseless questions.”

  McCann took his point.

  “Aye,” he said. “You’re right on that point.”

  Chapter Eight

  The squall had passed, leaving the sea with a long, slow swell. The trawler trudged east, making slow time. They were almost at the point of rendezvous. The air was fresh after the rain and wind, the early sky covered with high silvery clouds. Visibility was good. The two men in the wheel-house searched the horizon.

  “They should be here,” said Doyle. “Their message was clear.”

  Cullen grunted.

  “Huh. So much for modern communications. Try him again. Can’t you get him on the radio?”

  “Could, but I don’t want to go on the airwaves. Others could be listening.”

  “You mean the coastguard?”

  “Anyone. Coastguard or trawlers. Fellas on land. It’s a risk and, unless it’s really necessary, I’d rather not.”

  “Why did you do it an hour ago if it’s so risky?”

  “Pre-arranged. We used the code and were only on the air for a total of thirty seconds. All we wanted was confirmation that Marcel was in the area and on his way. We got it. Relax, he’ll be here.”

  Cullen said nothing in reply. He knew his brother-in-law made sense. He trusted Doyle’s judgment. He had to admit confidence in Doyle. The man wasn’t about to start panicking and scream for the Frenchman on the radio and have the coastguard and maybe the Royal Navy sweep down on them. Doyle had nerve all right, thought Cullen. He was glad he was with him, had him on his side. Now that it was getting close to the time, Cullen was getting anxious. But he could see that Doyle was channelling his anxiety, building it into an alert, not a fear.

  The three men below were quiet. It was an easy thing, they knew, to agree with their skipper on the safe and secure docks of Howth to ferry Cullen, a fugitive and native of their own home, to the safety of a French fishing vessel. But now, with the moment at hand, they were feeling the strain of their decision. What should have been
a quick, simple matter was being purposely turned down to slower motion, making time hold back on itself, giving room for failure of the operation to become possible.

  *

  The hull rolled in the hills of sea with a monotonous regularity. Pritchard pounded the side of his bunk and said,

  “Jesus! This waiting’d kill you!”

  He sat up and looked out the porthole by his bunk.

  “Nothing, not a fucking thing.”

  He dropped back on the bunk and propped himself up on his elbow. He glowered at McCann.

  “Well, boyo, it looks like your boss has fucked up this time, doesn’t it?”

  He added, with strong irony,

  “It’ll be a nice little situation now all right — us floatin’ around here with Cullen on board and the fuckin’ coastguard wanderin’ around on the lookout. That’s all we need now — those boyos to come along and do a routine search. That’d be a nice find, wouldn’t it? An escaped bank robber, wanted on both sides of the border. And maybe a couple of Uzis and a few grenades on board. And all of us sittin’ here nice and cosy, not knowin’ that he’s who he says he isn’t. Steven’ll go to the north and never be heard of again, an’ all of us’ll be put away in the ’Joy or Portlaoise for aidin’ and abettin’. By Jesus, it’ll be a fine day for us all and a great way to start our new lives with a new boat.”

  He halted for a moment. The fear of the waiting was making him angry at himself. He was betraying his fear to the others. Pritchard was panicking.

  McCann stood up from his own bunk and looked out the porthole.

  “Cool it,” he said, trying hard to control the shake he knew would be in his voice. The swells outside were heavy. The surface was smooth and the dazzle from the high silver clouds filling the sky reflected on the water and made him squint.

  “Sean knows what he’s at, and so do you. You were given a choice last Thursday.”

  He turned to Pritchard to give more weight to his words.

  “All you had to do was leave then. You made your decision like the rest of us, Seamus, so live with it.”

  “Huh,” snorted Pritchard. “Some fuckin’ decision. What choice did I have?”

  McCann continued the argument.

  “We all chose,” he said, “and Sean Doyle had the choice too. He didn’t have to let us know he was taking Steven.”

  His voice dropped, the tough abrasion leaving it. He was tired of this.

  “So just drop it. We’re not having any more fun than you.”

  Doyle’s voice broke the following silence.

  “Peter! Come up Peter!”

  Though it was McCann who was called, all three men in the sleeping quarters moved in response to the call. Pritchard was first up the steps, moving with a fast and purposeful step. Wills was after him, taking little notice of the stumbling McCann, who almost fell in his eagerness to move.

  Pritchard burst up into the wheel-house, stood upright and asked,

  “Aye skipper? What is it?”

  Wills followed quickly and McCann stumbled in after him, pushing against the other two as he did.

  For a moment Doyle said nothing. Cullen had the binoculars to his eyes, pointed slightly to port of the bow. The five of them stood searching. Then Cullen spoke,

  “It’s her all right. The French flag’s flying and he has the distress signal for a man being sick up. Here, have a look.”

  He handed the glasses to Doyle.

  With one hand on the large wheel and holding the binoculars in the other, the skipper focused on the spot Cullen had indicated.

  “Aye, that’s it. That flag’s their cover in case we’ll be having any company.”

  He put the glasses on the ledge in front of him and, without turning, addressed the men behind him.

  “Right. Get the answer up. He’ll be watching for a reply. Let him know we’re giving assistance and coming at full speed. That man’s got a bigger, faster boat than we have, and if he sees us coming down on him without the agreed signal, he’s likely to turn and run. Move it!”

  As the three younger men turned to the port side door, Doyle barked,

  “T.J., loosen the wires on the radio. You don’t have to damage anything. Just knock the receiver and the address systems off.”

  Cullen looked at Doyle.

  “What’s that for?”

  Doyle kept his eyes on the French boat, now a definite shape on their horizon.

  “Just in case,” he said, “if we’re visitors, we don’t want any awkward questions as to why we didn’t radio for assistance, or at least break news over the airwaves.”

  Cullen nodded.

  “By God, you’re thinking all right. Let me know when you get fed up with the straight life.”

  McCann and Pritchard moved quickly to the flagpole at the stern of the ship. The Irish tricolour fluttered at the top. The men flung open the storage hatch amidships where ropes and blocks, pulleys and metal eyes, pins and pieces which could be used for running repairs were neatly stored. McCann rummaged for a brief while, then stood straight again, a coloured emblem hanging from his hand.

  The two men ran to the flagstaff.

  “Drop the halyard,” said McCann. Impatiently, he began to haul on the flag rope.

  “Wait!” shouted Pritchard. “Give us a fuckin’ chance. I haven’t got it open yet.”

  Pritchard’s large fingers tugged at the knot on the cleat.

  “Who the fuck put this on?” he roared.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” urged McCann. “Move it!”

  “It’s still wet,” replied the big man. “It’s caught. Hold on, don’t pull it!”

  But even as he spoke, the mounting panic in both men took over, pushing them to act instinctively. McCann wrapped the halyard supporting the flying flag around one hand and tugged fiercely.

  Pritchard yelled, “Hold it! It’s not undone yet!”

  But it was too late. The tug had jammed the rope in the side of the sheave.

  “Get your bloody finger out of it!” McCann shouted. “Hurry, for God’s sake!”

  Just as he finished, Pritchard said in relief,

  “There! It’s open. Haul it down and we’ll get the other one up.”

  McCann tugged again.

  “I can’t. Are you sure it’s open? It won’t move.”

  Pritchard looked at him.

  “Jesus!” he spat. “You’ve jammed it. I told you to wait — that I didn’t have it open!”

  They stared at each other. A strong bellow reached them from the wheel-cabin.

  “Where’s that signal? Get it up!”

  McCann stood back a pace from the flagpole and peered at the top of the mast. He could see that the rope had jumped from the block to the space in the sheave.

  “Damn!” he said in a loud whisper.

  Doyle and Cullen looked anxiously at the French boat, now endwise. They could see she had turned. Only they were not sure if she was headed towards them or away from them.

  “What the bloody hell are they playing at?” asked Doyle.

  His voice was low with a ferocity in it.

  “Go back there, Steven. Tell ’em to get that flag on the post, or swim home.”

  Cullen moved quickly.

  It was the sight of one of the older men emerging fast from the wheel-cabin that spurred McCann to move. His mind was clear. The flag at the top had to come down. The one in his pocket was going aloft. Hugging his chest close to the staff, he pulled his knees up and moved his hands up the pole. Another shift of the hands, another squeeze of the mast and he raised his knees again. The hard mast pressed against his chest, the smoothness wet from sea and spray. His hands fought hard to hold it. With his head close to the top, he could feel the muscles in his arms begin to weaken. A sharp pain from the constant pressure on his thighs shot through his leg. He hauled himself up again. But the movement was shorter and took more effort. He shut his eyes and hauled again, putting his head forward and his neck against the pole for more support. He lo
oked up. The Tricolour was nearly within an arm’s length, fluttering and waving in the salty air. The pole suddenly seemed damper, slippier, narrower. It swayed with the movement of the boat. His hands clamped desperately to it and he could feel the shudder of tension in his thighs. Somewhere down below he heard a voice shout, “…bloody flag up yet?”

  He became aware of the rhythmic pitching of the ship through the swell and the wind seemed higher. The flag billowed and flopped, seemingly laughing at him. The edge of the waving material touched his hair and mocked him, maddening him. He squeezed his thighs around the pole, hooked a foot under the other leg and curled one arm around the mast. He leaned back slightly and swung his grasping hand into the flapping rectangle.

  The big fingers dug into the cloth, gathered it into his fist until it was caught like a rope, hard in his grip. His eyes fastened on the sheave. He could see where it was caught. He’d have to climb again, a few inches, enough to pull the flap upwards from the sheave. He inched his thighs up slightly around the mast. His left arm tightened and he hauled himself, an inch, another inch. He stretched out his right arm and poked at the mast-top. He bounced his fist, with the furled piece of flap still in it, off the tip of the mast, then pressed his hand down on it. He moved up slowly, hauling all his weight with his right arm. His eyes drew level with the sheave and he peered at the rope stuck firm in the block.

  With its own instinct, his left arm edged to the top. It reached for, caught and held the vacant tip of the far side of the mast. He felt his weight transfer itself to the strong arm.

  The rope jumped free and his arm, freed from the blockage, swung out. He swayed out over the slanting decks below. His hand dived back, grabbed the post and his head smacked hard against the pole.

  The rope fell back in the pulley and squealed as the flag hauled off behind it in the wind and cascaded elegantly in the trough running astern. He squeezed his eyes and held on tightly. The salt stung his eyes and he felt the cool of the wood on his bruising forehead. He dared not look below, then heard shouts.