We were afloat.
We took her out stern first on that single hawser till we were almost over the anchor. Then, before we dragged the anchor on too short a hawser, we let go the main anchor for’ard.
Everything depended now on whether the anchors held. As she had come off the Trikkala had swung a bit so that she was not quite stem-on to the wind. We let her be blown a little shoreward so that there was some length to the after anchor chain and then hoped for the best. Wind and waves were both thrusting her shoreward. It was a heavy weight that the anchors had to hold. However, silent and a little scared, we got the pumps working and then settled down to the task of trimming the ship. Our work of the previous night had so lightened the after-hold that she was floating with her stern cocked up in the air. And so, whilst Mac struggled with the engines, the four of us got to work clearing some of the cargo out of Numbers One and Two holds.
One thing, it kept our minds occupied. The hours sped by and gradually we realised that not only were the anchors holding, but that the pumps, working flat out, were able to take care of what water we were making. By dusk the wind had swung right round into the west again so that we were once more under the lee of the island. The sea dropped quickly and then there was no longer any danger of our being blown on to the shore.
We finally got the ship trimmed at three o’clock in the morning. In the galley, with the cook’s cat purring round our legs, we had a little celebration party on tea and rum. We were all practically asleep on our feet. Mac came up from the engine-room and reported that he’d cleared the fuel system and as soon as he’d got it back he’d fire the boilers. There was now no doubt of our safety. Peace of mind flooded through my aching limbs. And with that and the warmth of the fire I fell asleep where I sat in front of the galley stove.
I woke to find Jenny shaking me by the arm. I felt cold and wretched. Bert was curled up on the cook’s bunk, snoring loudly. Zelinski was frying soya sausages. “It’s getting light,” Jenny said. I rubbed my eyes and stretched.
After a shave and breakfast I felt better. Mac took us down to the engine-room. The place was hot and full of life. One of the main boilers was fired. The flames glowed red through the steel door. The pressure gauge was beginning to register. “A’ll have the port engine working before midday,” he said, grinning. I think that was the first and the last time I ever saw Mac grin. He looked like a schoolboy showing off a new toy.
Up on deck smoke rolled out of the funnel in a black cloud. “I think I feel a bit light-headed,” Jenny said. We were standing on the bridge and I was going over in my mind how best to handle the ship. Neither Jenny nor I really knew anything about it. Mac was the only one of us who had sailed in steam and he only understood the engines.
“With luck we’ll be back in a fortnight,” I said, and kissed her.
She laughed and pressed my hand. “The luck’s been with us so far,” she said. “Except for the Eilean Mor.”
We went into the wheelhouse then and began checking equipment, testing voice pipes, examining charts. We must have been there the better part of an hour, talking and planning and going over things, when I heard Bert shouting. As I stepped out of the wheelhouse on to the bridge, his feet clattered up the bridge ladder. “Jim!” he shouted. “Jim!”
“What’s the matter?” I asked as he stumbled on to the bridge.
“Look?” he panted, pointing aft beyond the Trikkala to the line of the reefs.
He pointed straight towards the gap. A wave had just crashed against the pinnacle on the south side of the entrance. It burst in a cloud of spray and then spilled in a flood of surf across the gap. Everything looked the same. The line of the reefs, the white boil of the surf, the leaden, scud-filled sky. “What is it?” I shouted in his ear.
“There—in the gap,” he shouted back.
The water tossed upwards as backwash hit the oncoming surge of water. Then, as the sea settled, I saw it. Out beyond the gap, half hidden in a curtain of spray, was the squat funnel of a small ship. Next instant I could see her bows, coming up black with the sea running white off her snout like a submarine surfacing. Those bows were headed for the gap.
I felt my nerves tense as I strained my eyes to see her enter the gap. Jenny came out and caught my arm. “What is it, Jim?”
I pointed and I felt her start as the black funnel showed for an instant in the foam. The vessel was in the gap now. A wave broke. The funnel heeled right over. The ship was lost in a great smother of foam. Then she rose up, just as the Eilean Mor had done. For an instant we could see her clearly—a tug—then she was down again, smothered in surf and spray. A moment later she spilled through the gap and was in calmer waters not half a mile away from us.
It was Halsey’s tug. No doubt of that. Unless there were two Admiralty tugs headed for Maddon’s Rock, which was hardly likely.
“Is it—is it Halsey?” Jenny shouted.
“Yes, that’s ’im all right, Miss,” Bert answered her. “That’s Cap’n blarsted ’Alsey orl right.”
“Bert, get the rifles—quick,” I ordered. “And the ammo.”
In a matter of minutes we were at what was for us Action Stations. We left Mac with the engines. If only we could get steam up before they boarded us we might still have a chance. Jenny and I with a rifle apiece were on the bridge which had armour protected sides. Bert and Zelinski were aft. We all had revolvers as well as rifles.
The tug headed straight for us. Above the din of the reefs I distinctly heard their engine-room telegraph ring as they cut to slow ahead. Through the glasses I could see Halsey standing on the bridge. His black beard was white with salt. He had no cap on and his long dark hair hung about his face. Beside him stood the lean, long figure of Hendrik.
“Will he try and board us right away?” Jenny asked.
“No,” I said. “He’ll hail us first. He won’t know who’s on board. He’ll want to know that before he starts anything.”
Jenny suddenly gripped my hand. “Jim, I’ve suddenly remembered something,” she said. “Something Bert said. Do you remember, he said he thought that when Halsey had got the silver, he’d abandon all the crew, except the old gang. Probably Rankin, too. They must have others on board besides the five who escaped from the Trikkala. If we could work on their fears.” She scrambled to her feet. “There’s a megaphone in the wheelhouse,” she said.
It was a chance. It might make them hold off for a bit. We had to have time. I seized one of the engine-room voice-pipes and blew down it. “Mac,” I called.
“Is that you, Mr. Vardy?” came his voice, faint and distant through the tube.
“Yes,” I replied. “Halsey has arrived. What’s the earliest moment we can get that port engine going?”
“Weel, A’ canna promise it for anither hour.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m on the bridge. Let me know the instant we can use it.”
Another hour! Two hours later and we should have given Halsey the slip. Our luck seemed to have deserted us utterly. Jenny returned and handed me the megaphone. The tug’s screws churned as she went astern. She had fetched up within a long stone’s throw of the Trikkala. “Ahoy there, Trikkala!” came Halsey’s voice over the loud-hailer. “Ahoy! Who is on board?” And then again, “Ahoy, Trikkala! This is the salvage tug, Tempest, sailing under orders of the British Admiralty.”
He was lying, of course. But it showed that it had not occurred to him that Bert and I had reached the Trikkala. “Ahoy, Trikkala!” he called again. “Is any one on board?”
I put the megaphone to my lips then and, keeping well under cover, hailed the tug: “Ahoy there, Tempest! Calling the crew of the salvage tug Tempest. Trikkala calling the crew of the Tempest. This is a non-commissioned officer of the British Army speaking to you.” I could see the crew lining the bulwarks. “I hold the Trikkala and the bullion on board in the King’s name. Further, I order you to deliver to me the person of Captain Halsey, charged with the murder of twenty-three members of the crew of the Trikkala.
Implicated with him are Hendrik, first officer of the Trikkala, and two seamen, Jukes and Evans. These persons will be delivered on board this ship in irons. I warn you that if you commit an act of piracy under the orders of the prisoner, Halsey, it is possible that you will suffer the same fate as the crew of the Trikkala. Halsey is a murderer and——”
I stopped then for the tug’s siren was blowing, drowning my voice. The screws frothed at her stern and she swung away in a wide arc, her siren still blowing a feather of white steam at her funnel.
Jenny seized my arm. “Oh, Jim, that was terrific! You scared him. And all that official stuff about wanted for murder——” She was laughing.
I felt a momentary thrill of excitement—then it was gone. Halsey would come back. The bait of half a million in silver bullion would soon settle the anxieties of his crew. All I had done was to tell him who we were and gain a bit of time. I went to the engine-room voice-pipe again. “Mac,” I called, “you’ve got to get that engine working.”
“A’ canna do anything till we’ve got steam up.” His voice sounded thin and peevish. Wisht! If only Halsey had been a few hours later.
“What do you suppose hell do now?” Jenny asked.
“Give his crew a pep talk and then hell come back,” I replied.
“Will he try and board us?”
“God knows,” I said. “If I were in his shoes I know what I’d do. Cut the Trikkala adrift. We’d be on those rocks over there in no time. Then he could deal with us at his leisure.”
The tug was hove-to now about half a mile to the north of us inside the reefs. Through the glasses I saw the crew assemble on the foc’s’le under the bridge. I counted about a dozen of them. Halsey was addressing them from the bridge. Bert’s voice came faintly from the stern. I went to the port wing of the bridge and looked aft to see what he wanted. He was standing by the three-inch. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he kept beckoning to me and pointing to the gun. Then he went over to one of the lockers which he had opened and pulled out a shell. He made a motion of ramming it up the gun.
I was down that bridge ladder in an instant and running aft. It had never occurred to me that those ancient, rust-caked guns could be used. But then I wasn’t a gunner—Bert was. If it could be fired, then here was our answer.
Bert was fiddling with the breech mechanism as I came up. “Is there a chance of our being able to use it?” I panted.
He looked round and grinned. “Don’t know, guv’nor. Barrel’s pretty rusty. But I managed to lower the breech block. She’s all right on elevation. But the traverse is a bit sticky. Wot d’yer fink? Shall we ’ave a go? She’s bin greased, but then that was a long time ago. The rust just flakes off the a’tside o’ the barrel. Like as not she’ll explode. But if it’s our only chance, we’d better take it.”
I hesitated. The thing looked rotten with rust. For more than a year it had taken the full brunt of the waves. “What about the one in the bows?” I suggested.
“I ain’t ’ad a look at ’er. She might be better, but I da’t it. She was facin’ inter the wind all the time. Anyway, we ain’t got time ter look ’er over. ’Ere comes the ruddy tug now.”
He was right. The tug was under way again. She swung in a wide arc, coming right round so that she was headed towards us again.
“Okay, Bert,” I said. “Well take a chance on it.”
“Right. You take the traverse. I’ll take the elevation and do the firing.” He began to sing “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition” as he lowered the breech again and rammed one of the rounds home. The breech block rose with a clang.
I told Zenliski, who was standing by, to run to the bridge and get the megaphone. “I’ll give them warning,” I said. “If they don’t stop, we’ll put a shot across her bows. Okay?”
“Right-ho, chum.” Bert wriggled on to the layer’s seat on the left of the gun. “The ra’nd I got up the spa’t is fuzed for zero. Mind the ’awser,” he added as I climbed into the other layer’s seat.
It was the hawser that ran out to Zelinski’s anchor. It was lying slack on the deck close by me. “It’s all right,” I said. “It’s the bow anchor that’s holding her.” I didn’t worry about it for the Trikkala was lying with her bows turned to the wind and there was no chance of the stern anchor line suddenly pulling tight.
The tug was coming up fast now. The decks were deserted. Halsey had ordered his men under cover. Through the glasses I could see Jukes and Evans with Hendrik on the bridge. Both of them were armed with rifles. They ducked down under cover as the tug neared the Trikkala. Zelinski handed me the megaphone. Jenny had come down with him. “Is that gun all right?” she asked anxiously.
“I hope so,” I said. “You and Zelinski get under cover. And keep well away from the gun.” I saw Jenny hesitate. “For God’s sake get under cover,” I said.
The tug was close now. She had cut down her speed. As I had thought, she was making straight for the point where the anchor cable dipped in the waves. She’d nose her bows under the cable and sheltered by the tug’s hull, the crew would cut through it with a hack-saw. Then they’d do the same to the bow anchor chain.
I put the megaphone to my lips. “Ahoy, Tempest!” I hailed. “Ahoy! If you don’t go about I’ll open fire.”
“’E’s ’oldin’ to ’is course,” Bert said. “Shall we let ’im ’ave it.” The rusty muzzle of the gun dipped as he depressed. I traversed right. The gearing was sticky. But forcing the gun round with all my weight on the traversing handle, I found the tug in my sights. “On target,” Bert reported.
I laid her off a bit ahead of the Tempest. “Right!” I called out. And then with my heart in my mouth, I ordered, “Fire!”
There was a flash, a violent explosion that made my ears sing deafly, and in the same instant a great fountain of water shot up just in front of the tug’s bows.
“Luvly,” Bert called out excitedly. “That’s put the wind up ’em.” He had jumped down from his seat and was thrusting another round into the breech. I sat slightly dazed with the realisation that the gun had fired and we were still alive. Men were running about the Tempest’s decks. We were sitting on top of them at point-blank range, and they knew it. I saw somebody on the bridge working frantically at the wheel. The engine-room telegraph rang. The screws frothed white at the stem. The breech block clanged to. “That’ll teach Capting stupid ’Alsey,” Bert said. He suddenly laughed. “Look at the poor fools, fightin’ at the wheel. Blimey! Look—they’re goin’ ter foul our anchor ’awser. They’re runnin’ slap into it.”
In their frantic haste to bring the tug round, they seemed to have forgotten all about the anchor hawser they were aiming to run underneath. I thought for a moment that it would sweep their deck of bridge, funnel, everything. But it was the bows that hit the hawser. The whole weight of the boat thrust at it, pushing it out in a great loop. Jenny’s voice suddenly cried, “Jim! The hawser!”
Then Bert’s voice shouted, “Look a’t!”
In that same instant I saw the whole length of the slack hawser rise out of the water and whip tight like a bowstring. Something rose up from the deck like a solid bar and crashed against my seat. A terrible pain broke through my hip and back. I felt myself flung forward. Then in a daze of pain and lost consciousness I felt myself falling, falling. Then it was dark and I was struggling. I could not breathe. I was fighting in the toils of some nightmare fabric that seemed to have no substance yet was closed all about me.
I don’t remember anything after that until I found myself lying in the bottom of a boat, a man’s sea boot close against my face. My clothes were soaked and I was shivering with cold. The boat pitched and tossed violently. Oars creaked rhythmically. I looked up. My head was lying between a man’s feet. Two knees were hunched between me and the grey sky, framing a man’s face. He looked down at me. It was Hendrik.
I closed my eyes. I thought this must be part of the nightmare. But slowly it all came back to me—the hawser whipped suddenly taut, the pain in
my thigh and back, that sensation of flying through the air. I knew then that I had been flung over the stern of the Trikkala. The tug must have lowered a boat. Wind and tide would have carried me towards the tug. I suppose Bert had been afraid to open fire on them, or they had threatened to shoot me if he did. The boards were hard. I tried to move myself into a more comfortable position, but such a pain swept up my side that I think I lost consciousness again.
The next thing I knew I was being lifted out of the boat. More pain, but I could move my legs and I realised that nothing was broken. “Is he conscious, Mr. Hendrik?” It was Halsey’s voice.
“Aye,” replied the mate. “There’s nothing the matter wi’ him at all. Legs and back a wee bit bruised, that’s all.”
I was carried down a companion ladder, a door was opened and I was dropped on to a bunk. I struggled on to one elbow and stared around me. I was in a small cabin. Hendrik was there. So was Halsey. The two men who had carried me in went out. Halsey closed the door. He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Now, dear boy, perhaps you’ll tell me how you come to be on the Trikkala?” His voice was soft, gentle as a woman’s, yet without warmth, almost colourless.
I felt myself panicking. “What are you going to do with me?” I asked him, struggling to keep my voice to an even pitch.
“That depends on you and your friends,” he replied smoothly. “Corile, let’s have your story. You and Cook came on board the Tempest at Newcastle. You found out where the Trikkala was lying from Rankin. Then what?”
“We got a boat and sailed to Maddon’s Rock,” I said.
“How did you get the boat? How many of you are there?”
“Several of us,” I answered vaguely.
Halsey clucked his tongue. “Come, Vardy—a little more precision, please. How many of you?”
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