Maddon's Rock

by Hammond Innes

  Midday came. Visibility was still not above three miles at the outside. The wind was beginning to whine in the shrouds and the gusts were angry buffets of air that whisked the broken tops off the waves and flung them in great curtains of spray across the ship. We were reefed down, but even so the little ship was inclined to bury her bows under the weight of the wind.

  Bert staggered into the wheelhouse with a couple of mugs. “’Ere we are,” he said, “cup o’ char fer the skipper an’ one fer you, mate.” He put the mugs down on the chart table. “Nearly there?” he asked me.

  “Any minute now,” I said, trying to appear confident.

  “An’ aba’t high time too,” he said with a grin that failed to hide his nervousness. “Me guts is fair dizzy wiv all this pitchin’ an’ tossin’. An’ Mac—’e says there’s bad wevver blowin’ up. Claims ’e can smell it.”

  “He can, too,” Jenny said as she reached for her mug. “I’ve never known Mac wrong about the weather. If he can’t smell it, his rheumatism tells him.”

  I drank my tea and went out on to the heaving deck. Visibility was getting worse. I strained my eyes through the leaden murk. There was nothing—absolutely nothing but the grey, gust-torn sea heaving and breaking all about us. Every now and then the break of a wave crest caught us at the gun’l and bathed the ship in spray. Bert came out and joined me. “Fink we’re runnin’ past it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” I glanced at my watch. It was getting on for one. “It’s possible. Difficult to correct accurately for drift up here.”

  “Any sign of the Rock yet, Jim?” Jenny called from the wheelhouse.

  “No,” I shouted back. “Not a sign.”

  “Gawd luv us, it’s cold a’t ’ere,” Bert said. “Got a nice drop o’ stew on when yer want it. ’Ullo, Mac, yer old misery.” The Scot lifted his nose to the weather as he emerged from below and sniffed at it like a bloodhound coming out of its kennel. “Come up ter ’ave anuvver sniff at the wevver,” Bert went on. “’E’s bin bellyaching aba’t is rheumatics all this mornin’.”

  “Aye, there’s dirrty weather on our backsides.” The Scot gave a cackle. “Ye’ll see. Ye’ll no be worrit aboot yer stew then.”

  “Nice cheerful bloke you are, I don’t fink,” Bert answered back. Then suddenly he seized my arm. “Hey, Jim! Wot’s that? Straight ahead. Come ’ere. Yer can’t see it fer the jib.” He pulled me a few paces to the side so that I had a clear view for’ard. “There yer are. Looks like a bad patch, don’t it?”

  Straight ahead of us, about a mile distant, the sea was all broken up and thrown about as though it were in the grip of a tidal race. I yelled to Jenny. But she had seen it. “Ready about!” she shouted.

  “Gawd!” exclaimed Bert. “Look at that sea breaking.”

  The broken water was hidden in a great patch of white foam from which the wind whipped a grey curtain of spray. I knew what it was then—submerged rocks. “Come on, jump to it,” I shouted at Bert. A moment later the Eilean Mor came round, canvas slatting violently in a gust and we were running due east with our port gun’ls awash and the wind on our starboard quarter. The submerged rocks were away to port now, a flurry of foam-flecked water in the grey misery of the sea. And then, beyond that patch of foam, something showed for a second, black and wicked in a gap in the curtain of driven spray. “Did yer see that?” Bert asked.

  “Yes,” I shouted back, as I fixed the jib. “Rock.”

  “It’s gone now,” Bert said. “Idden in a beastly great sheet of spray. No, there it is again—look!”

  I straightened up and followed the line of his outflung arm. For a second the veil of spray was drawn back. A great rock with sheer cliffs several hundred feet high stood out of the water which writhed and foamed at its base. Then a wave curled high and flung itself at the rock face. A great burst of white water billowed up the cliffs like the explosion of a depth charge. The next instant the wind had carried the spray of it across the rock and there was nothing there but a leaden curtain of mist.

  “It’s gone again,” Bert cried. His voice was pitched high with excitement and awe. “Did yer see that wave ’it it? Seemed ter break right over it. Reck’n we bin led up the garding pa’f. Nobody wouldn’t beach a ship there.”

  The shock of that sight was like a blow below the belt. It took all the strength out of me. “Doesn’t look like it,” I said. No ship could live in a place like that. And this was a relatively quiet day. What in God’s name was it like in a storm? I thought of the gale that was mounting behind us. “You two stay here,” I told Mac and Bert. “And watch out for reefs. I’m going to relieve Jenny at the wheel.”

  “Aye,” said Mac, “an’ ye’d best tell Miss Jenny to shorten sail an’ rin clear of the area whilst we can still see what we’re running into.”

  “Bloomin’ pessimist, you are,” Bert shouted. But his face looked small and scared.

  I went into the wheelhouse. Jenny stood close against the wheel, her legs braced, her body taut. Her head was lifted slightly as she watched the sails. “I’ll take over for a bit, shall I?” I said.

  She handed me the wheel and took up the log book. “I suppose that is Maddon’s Rock?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I think it must be,” I said.

  She nodded and wrote: Monday, 29th April. 1.26 p.m. Sighted Maddon’s Rock. Wind rising. Expecting gale. She closed the book and straightened herself, peering out through the glass windshield. “Do you think there’s any chance of a ship existing there for a whole year?” she asked.

  I glanced away to port where the Rock showed momentarily through a gap in the spray. “Well,” I answered, “if they did beach her there, they must have had a reason to think it was safe.” Again a glimpse of the Rock. It was smooth and black like the back of a seal. It was shaped like a wedge; high cliffs to the west rising straight out of the sea and then sloping away to the east. We were running along the southern flank of it. I should say it was about three miles away. The nearest reefs at any rate were a good mile, probably two. “What about getting in a bit closer?” I said. “Mac’s worried about the weather. Says we ought to get clear of those reefs before it closes in and begins to blow. He’s right, too. I suggest we edge in as close as we dare to the reefs, run the length of them and if we can’t find the gap, or if it’s impassable, drive east before the wind.”

  “Okay.” She took the wheel again whilst we went about and stood in towards the reefs. When we had closed to within half a mile of the boiling surf, we turned east again and began to run down the line of the surf eastwards. When we were fully abreast of the island we could see it quite plainly. Why it was called Maddon’s Rock, heaven knows. It should have been called Whale Island, for it was shaped just like a whale—a hammer-head with its blunt nose facing to the west. Above the sound of the wind, we could hear the perpetual thunderous roar of the surf along the reefs. Visibility had improved a bit and we could see them stretching in a line parallel to the island and far beyond it to the east. It was as wicked a patch of sea as I have ever seen. The rocks that formed the reef seemed much of a height, as though they were formed by a ledge that had been tilted back by some disturbance of the earth’s surface. They were practically submerged, but now and then we caught a glimpse of black, surf-worn rock from which the water poured only to be lifted back by the next wave. I picked up the glasses and searched the Rock itself. It was absolutely smooth, as though worn by a million years of ice and sea.

  Bert came into the wheelhouse then. “Fair awful, ain’t it?” he said. “Mind if I ’ave a look fru them glasses?” I handed them to him. “It’ll be dark in two or free hours,” he muttered. “Don’t yer reck’n we oughter do as Mac says? I mean, this spot ain’t the Ra’nd Pond. Yer can’t just anchor up for the night.” He was looking through the glasses now and I suddenly saw him stiffen. “Hey,” he cried excitedly. “Wot’s that on the far side—a rock? It’s sort o’ square, like a shelter or summat. Square an’ black. ’Ere, you ’ave a look.” He passed me t
he glasses. “Just where it slopes into the water.”

  I picked it up at once, low down to the east of the island as though it were the tail fin of the whale. “I’ve got it,” I said. “It’s not a rock. It would have been worn smooth like the rest of the island if it were.” And then I realised what it was. “By God!” I cried. “It’s the top of a funnel.” I thrust the glasses into Jenny’s hand and took the wheel. “It’s the top of the Trikkala’s funnel. She’s beached on the other side of that shoulder that slopes down into the sea.”

  All thought of the impending gale and of the danger of our position was lost for the time being in the excitement of watching that distant square lengthen into a funnel as we ran down the reefs. Soon we could see one of her masts and a bit of the superstructure. It was incredible, but there she was, no doubt of that.

  The reefs stretched eastward in a strip, like a long fore-finger. It took us half an hour to double the tip and then, close-hauled, we drove northward. We were about two miles to the east of the tail-end of Maddon’s Rock. We could see the whole of the Trikkala. Through the glasses we could see her, lying high and dry on a little shelving beach like a stranded fish. She was heeled over at a crazy angle and red with rust. Two shoulders of black, sleek rock enclosed that little beach, sheltering her from the prevailing winds. Curtains of spray poured across the back of the island, spume thrown up by the waves dashing against the high cliffs at the western end. Every now and then this curtain blotted out ship and island.

  It was less than two miles away now—an anchorage under a lee shore, a 5,000 ton freighter and half a million in silver bullion. And no sign of Halsey’s tug. There was the evidence we wanted, almost within our grasp. But between us and that sheltered beach was a band of raging surf. The reefs seemed to encircle all but the sheer western side of the island. But here to the east they were not a regular, half-submerged line, but a jumble of jagged, blackened teeth amongst which the waves tumbled in a riot of unholy violence.

  When we were within perhaps half a mile of this mad chaos of water we saw the gap. Perhaps I should say that we saw what we thought to be the gap, for it was so smothered in foam that it was impossible to be certain. It was then shortly after three. To the east of us the sea looked clear of reefs and we decided to press on to the north to check whether there was any other break in the reefs. By four we were heading nor’-west following the line of the reefs round the island. We had seen nothing that looked like a gap and the Trikkala was slowly being hidden from view by the northern shoulder of the Rock. We went about then and struggled back with our head almost in the teeth of the wind along the vicious line of tumbled surf. No doubt about it, that was the gap right opposite the little beach on which the Trikkala rested.

  It took us nearly an hour to beat back to the gap. We didn’t talk much. I think we were all of us over-awed by the decision that had to be made. The wind was rising now and the glass was as low as I’d ever seen it. But as yet the seas were not much bigger than they had been during the past few days, especially in the lee of the island. The waves had no weight behind them—yet. There was none of the heavy deep-sea swell of the kind that might run in this area for weeks at a time after bad weather. The decision that lay before us was whether or not to go straight in and risk being overwhelmed in the mad tumble of surf that smothered the gap.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE “TRIKKALA”

  AT LENGTH WE were abreast of the gap. Jenny was at the wheel. She had edged the Eilean Mor in close so that we could have a good look at it. It was barely a quarter of a mile away on our starboard beam. There was no doubt about it being a gap. A pinnacle of rock stood on a ledge to the left of the entrance. It was like a lighthouse, but bigger, more solid. It was against this that the waves broke. Each wave seemed to pile up to a great height on a submerged ledge, crash against this pinnacle and then fling itself in a great wall of foam across the gap which was a good fifty yards wide. On the farther side the wave seemed to re-form, pile up and break against a solid mass of broken, jagged rocks. From these it would fall back and its backwash would meet the next wave spilling across the gap and the sea would toss itself upward in a giant leap as though it were trying to reach up to the low-hanging cloud. It was a most frightening patch of water. Just occasionally there would be a momentary lull. It was then that we could see that it was a clear gap. And beyond, where the Trikkala lay beached, the water seemed reasonably quiet, protected as it was on all sides by the reefs.

  “Do you think there’s any chance of getting through there?” Jenny asked me. We were alone in the wheelhouse.

  “God knows,” I replied. “All I know is that Halsey took the Trikkala in through that gap and there she lies, apparently intact. And he came out again in an open boat with five men in it.”

  “What shall we do then?” Jenny asked. “We’ve got to decide now. The wind’s getting up. It’ll be dark soon. We’ve got to make up our minds.” Her voice was uncertain. She was staring at the gap. The Eilean Mor lurched violently. Jenny turned to me as she tightened her grip on the wheel. “Shall we stand away and run for it? Or shall we chance it and go in?”

  I didn’t know what to answer. There lay the Trikkala within our grasp. And yet the thought of Jenny being flung into the boiling surf if the Eilean Mor broke up going through the gap scared me. “You’re the skipper, Jenny,” I said at length.

  “Oh, be reasonable, Jim,” she cried. “I can’t decide a thing like this on my own. I’ve no idea what the reef looks like in fine weather. We’ve had it fair for the better part of two weeks now. This may be calm for Maddon’s Rock. If we wait till the storm has blown itself out, it may be weeks before we can approach as near the island at this. And Halsey would be here by then. You’ve got to help me decide. What would you do if you and Bert and Mac were here on your own.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I hadn’t considered it. “You must make the decision yourself. You’re the skipper and it’s your boat. The decision has to be yours.”

  She was looking straight at me, her grey eyes very steady, her brow slightly puckered. The salt glistened in her hair. “You’d go right in, wouldn’t you?” she said.

  I looked towards the gap. A great comber piled up against the ledge and broke in a seething mass of foam across the entrance, met the backwash of the previous wave and tossed itself in the air like a giant sea horse tossing its mane. “I don’t know,” I said.

  I felt her watching me. Then suddenly in a tight little voice she said, “Tell Mac to start the engine up.”

  “You’re going to go in?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice was strained, but I knew by the tone of it that she had made her mind up.

  “You aren’t trying to be pig-headed, are you?” I asked. “You do realise what it’s going to be like? It’ll be worse than any sea you’ve ever been through—and the odds are against our making it.”

  “Tell Mac to get the engine going,” she repeated.

  I did not try to dissuade her further. “When the engine is going, get the sails stowed,” she added, as I opened the door of the wheelhouse. “And have them put their life jackets on. I’ve got mine here. And well need to trail a sea anchor astern to hold her steady in that surf.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a tripping line and veer out about four fathoms. It’ll need to be a pretty short tow with all those rocks.”

  Mac got the engine started. The steady throb of the decks was a comfortable feeling. Bert and I dropped the sails and Jenny swung the Eilean Mors bows towards the gap. We stowed the sails and battened everything down. We got the sea anchor over the stern. Then I went back to the wheelhouse. Straight ahead of us through the windshield was the gap. It was now about two hundred yards ahead of us. From that distance the waves looked mountains high as they piled against the pinnacle on the left. Their shaggy heads would suddenly rear up, curl over and then dash themselves against the great square slab of granite that formed the pedestal. The sound of it was like a clap of thund
er above the general tide of battle that stormed along the length of the reefs.

  Jenny stood slim and erect against the wheel. Her eyes looked straight ahead. A sudden longing welled up in me. It was all mixed up with a feeling of pride and tenderness. She looked such a slip of a girl. But she faced that ghastly surge of water without a tremor. I went up behind her and took her by the elbows. “Jenny,” I said, “if we don’t—make it, I’d like you—I’d like you to know—I love you.”

  “Jim!” That was all she said. I could barely hear it above the thunder of the surf. She didn’t turn her head.

  “Does that mean you—love me?” I asked.

  “Of course, darling.” She leaned her head back so that our cheeks touched. “Why do you think I’m here?” She was half-laughing, half-crying. Then she straightened up and became practical. “Have Mac come out of the engine-room,” she said. “I don’t want him trapped down there—for all we know we may turn turtle. It looks frightful.” I felt her shudder. I let go of her elbows then and called to Mac. “Tell him to leave the engine running at full ahead,” she called out to me.

  Mac came up from below and I gave him the tripping line of the drogue. I called Bert into the wheelhouse too. There was at any rate some protection here. Then I went back to the wheel. It would need two to hold her running through that smother.

  “Gawd!” Bert exclaimed as he came in and shut the door. “You ain’t goin’ through that, are you, Miss Jenny? You can’t see nuffink beyond that surf—there may be a ’ole ’eap o’ rocks there.”

  “We’ve been all along the reefs and back,” I told him. “That’s the gap all right. And if the Trikkala could go through without hitting any rocks, then a boat this size can.” We were very near now. The thunder of the waves breaking was almost drowned in the constant seething hiss of that monstrous surf. “Ever seen anything like this before?” I called out to Mac.

  “A’ve seen as bad,” he replied sourly. “But a didna go through it—not in a wee boat like this. Ye’ll no do me engine any gude, Miss Jenny.”