Stephen Morris and Pilotage

by Nevil Shute

  The yawl held on her course. Dennison gazed at her incredulously for a moment; then realised that she was bluffing him. He was cold, hungry, and wet; the discovery sent a sudden flare of anger through him. Damn it, let her put her helm up and bear away! He held resolutely to his course.

  As the vessels closed, all the emotions of the last two days burst out in a sudden fit of temper. He was damned if he was going to give way to any nouveau riche who cared to barge about the Solent displaying his breeding. There were too many of the swine about. The fellow had only to get one of his men on deck, slip his mainsheet a little, and bear away. He had a full crew aboard; Dennison had seen them. He was damned if he’d give way.

  He held on his course.

  When she was fifty yards away, he realised that a collision was imminent. He thought rapidly. He might avoid an accident by throwing his little vessel into irons – with the risk of falling on to the Clematis, in which case he might be liable for the damages, as not having held his course. He was cold and wet; at the sight of the gleaming paint and winking brass of the yawl, he flamed into a passion. By God, he’d let her have it. She should get what she was asking for. He’d do her as much damage as he bloody well could, and leave her to pay for both. He stood up in the cockpit the better to con his vessel, and held the helm steady.

  The sharp white bow crossed his bowsprit; at the last moment the Clematis flung up into the wind with a slatting of heavy canvas. It was too late. Dennison held his course, blazing with temper. His bowsprit missed her main shrouds, crossed the bulwarks and stove in the motor-launch that she carried on her deck. The bob-stay parted with a sharp twang, and the straight stem of the little cutter crashed home upon the glossy whiteness of the topsides, splintering and gouging.

  ‘God,’ said Dennison, ‘that’s marked the swine!’ and ran forward to separate the vessels.

  The deck of the yawl was suddenly alive with men. A man at the bows shouted something, and somebody was heaving on the end of his bowsprit to push him clear. He ran forward of the mast. At that moment the bow of the Irene dropped into the trough of a sea. Her bowsprit crashed down on to the bulwarks of the Clematis as she dropped; then the heel of the spar leaped from the deck and came inboard waist high, straight for Dennison. He jumped backwards by the mast, and brought up against the main halyards. He put out his hand to ward the blow. A wire plucked agonisingly at his thumb, and then the spar was grinding its way along his ribs, slowly, intolerably. Suddenly the vessels freed and lay pitching together for a moment, grinding their sides; the spar jerked and fell heavily at his feet. Dennison caught blindly at the halyards and dropped slowly to his hands and knees beside the little capstan, sweating with pain.

  From a great distance voices came to him, and the tag end of a sentence, ‘ – he’s hurt, I tell you. Look at him.’ Then came a silence; perhaps they were looking at him. Of course he was hurt … the bloody fools. There was a heavy thump on his deck, and the same voice:

  ‘No, one’s enough,’ and another thump. Then came silence, an end to the bustle and confusion, and a thin voice in the distance bellowing something about Yarmouth Roads.

  Dennison raised his head; immediately the staysail began to beat about him cruelly. Somebody came forward and helped him to his feet.

  He looked around him, drawing a deep breath, and winced at a fresh spasm of pain along his ribs. Away up to windward the yawl was lowering her trysail with a six-foot rent in it, laying to under her foresheets and mizzen. There was a man in yachting clothes beside him, and a sailor of the Clematis at the helm. His hand throbbed and ached intolerably. He turned aft. ‘Bear away,’ he shouted. ‘Slack out some sheet. Let her away – right away. So. All right, keep her at that.’ He turned to the man beside him. ‘Help me get a line round this spar, or it’ll be on top of us.’ He fumbled clumsily with his left hand.

  The sailor hailed him from the cockpit. ‘Cam’ee aft, sir, ’n take her, ’n let me come forrard.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dennison. He thrust his injured hand between the buttons of his coat and stumbled aft to the little cockpit. He took the helm and sat down, numb with pain, anxiously watching the sailor moving deftly about the wreckage in the bows. With the help of the gentleman, a lean, cadaverous fellow perhaps twenty-eight or thirty years of age, the sailor got the foresheets off undamaged and passed a line round the spar. Then he turned aft.

  ‘Better start yure motor going, sir, ’n get the sail off her, ’n head up for Yarmouth, I rackon?’ His voice ended on the rising note of a question, in true West Country fashion.

  ‘I know about motors,’ said the lean man, and jumped down into the cabin, working under Dennison’s directions. The sailor came aft.

  ‘Where be tyers tu?’ he inquired. He was a genial old man, with a pleasant fatherly air, wearing gold ear-rings. Dennison indicated the locker. ‘Be ’ee hurt bad, sir?’ He clucked his tongue in sympathy. ‘Deary, deary me! Sir David will be turrible upset.’

  Dennison smiled faintly. ‘Who was in charge of your vessel?’ he asked.

  The sailor paused. ‘Why, skipper had her,’ he said. ‘We was all below tu dinner, ’n he was tu give us a call when he wanted tu put about.’ He continued with his work for a minute, and then, ‘Rackon skipper don’t take much account o’ the little boats,’ he said.

  ‘Reckon he don’t,’ said Dennison grimly.

  The motor began to throb, and coughed steadily into the water. The lean man appeared in the hatchway. The sailor called to him and instructed him in the two halyards; Dennison threw her up into the wind and they lowered the sail, wrapping it roughly with the tyers.

  They came aft. ‘I say,’ said the lean man, ‘I’m extremely sorry about this. We were in the wrong, weren’t we? I don’t know much about it, I’m afraid – I’m only a passenger.’

  The sailor spat into the sea. ‘Rackon we was wrong,’ he observed.

  They settled down to a wearisome run to Yarmouth. Dennison unbuttoned a couple of buttons of his oilskins and gently drew his hand out. The skin was unbroken, but it was swollen and discoloured already, and the thumb stood out in an uncouth attitude. The trouble was evident.

  ‘Can you put that back?’ asked Dennison.

  The lean man took the hand in his and whistled. ‘What bad luck,’ he said. ‘All right. It’ll hurt like hell for a minute, you know.’

  He took the wrist in one hand and the thumb firmly in the other, and gave a savage tug at it. Dennison bit his lip, but the thumb had gone back into its normal position and he could move it a little. The stranger glanced at him keenly. ‘What about a quick one?’ he said. ‘All right, I’ll get it.’

  He disappeared below, and emerged presently with a tumbler half full of rum. ‘I nearly as possible poured you out turps,’ he said. He watched Dennison as he drank. ‘Did that bowsprit hit you when it came back? I thought I saw it.’

  ‘It grazed my ribs,’ said Dennison. ‘I’ve got too many clothes on for it to do much damage.’

  The Clematis was three-quarters of a mile ahead, nearly into Yarmouth. ‘Come below and let’s have a look,’ said the lean man. ‘We can get a doctor in Yarmouth.’

  Dennison obeyed and relapsed into comparative comfort on his bunk, confident that his vessel was in safe hands. He was accustomed to slight injuries; it was not the first time that he had stretched himself thankfully on his bunk, to watch the lamp gyrating in the gymbals while the vessel hurried for the nearest harbour. The lean man pronounced his ribs intact, made him comfortable, and went on deck. Dennison fell into a doze till he was roused by the bustle of anchoring.

  The lean man appeared in the hatchway. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Stay where you are for a bit. I’m going to hop off to the Clematis in your dinghy and tell them about it. I think you ought to have a doctor to look at you. I want to see Sir David. I won’t be long – half an hour at the most. The chap will be on board if you want anything; he’s tidying up the mess forward.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dennison.

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nbsp; The stranger got into the dinghy and rowed off to the Clematis. He gave the painter to one of the hands and mounted the ladder; at the top he was met by an immense red-haired man in plus-fours, broad-shouldered and massively built.

  ‘I say, Rawdon,’ said the lean man. ‘Where’s Sir David?’

  The red-haired man raised his head and looked at him for a minute in bovine fashion, accentuated by his china blue eyes. Then he broke into a slow smile. ‘Having a word with the skipper in the saloon,’ he said, in a soft little voice that contrasted oddly with his bulk. ‘I wouldn’t go down just yet.’

  They fell into step and paced together up and down the deck. The lean man gave his companion a brief account of the state of affairs on board the Irene. Presently he was interrupted by the owner, who came up from below, followed by a crestfallen young officer, who went about his work without a word.

  Sir David walked to meet them. ‘Mr Morris,’ he said, ‘is that young man much hurt?’ He was a man well on in life, clean-shaven, with silvery hair and the hard features of the man who knows exactly where his interests lie. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this has happened. I’ve cruised for very nearly thirty years, and I’ve only once done such a thing before.’ His eyes turned expressively towards the young skipper. ‘That was under similar circumstances,’ he said.

  The man that he called Morris gave an account of Dennison’s injuries. ‘He tells me that this is his first day out of a ten-days’ cruise – single-handed,’ he said. ‘He lives in London.

  The baronet frowned, and fixed the Irene with his eye. ‘Can he manage by himself?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so – not for a day or two.’

  Sir David turned sharply from the Irene. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Then we must manage for him. I’ll get a doctor off to see him. Then if it’s only rest he wants, we can have him aboard here. I’ll have his vessel towed to Cowes for refitting. She’ll take about three days. By the time he’s fit, she’ll be ready for him.’

  He glanced at the hole stove in the varnished side of the motor-launch. ‘My launch must go ashore,’ he said. ‘We’ll run back to Cowes tomorrow. This young man can go in the companion state-room.’ He turned to the lean man. ‘I wonder if you would mind getting the doctor?’ he said. ‘In my name, of course. I’ll have you put ashore. Keep the boat and take the doctor off at once if you can get one. I’ll go aboard his vessel and see him when you get there. What is his name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Morris.

  ‘The vessel?’

  ‘The Irene.’

  Morris went on shore, rowed by a sailor; Rawdon and the baronet turned and went down into the saloon.

  The owner gave a few brief instructions to the steward about the preparation of the vacant state-room. Then he turned to Rawdon. ‘A most unfortunate business,’ he said. He went to the bookcase and picked out Lloyds Register of Yachts, laid it on the table, and turned the leaves. ‘Here we are. Irene – Irene – Irene. This is the one, I suppose. Irene wood cutter, seven ton, twenty-seven foot waterline, paraffin motor, built 1903, Luke. Owner, P. Dennison.’

  ‘That sounds like her,’ said Rawdon.

  The other did not reply; Rawdon glanced at him. He was frowning and staring absently at the bulkhead. ‘P. Dennison,’ he said. ‘Peter Dennison. It would be odd if this was one of them turned up again.’ He left his guest and crossed to one of the settees, dragged the seat cushion from it, and disclosed a locker beneath. He opened it; it was filled with bound volumes of old yachting journals. ‘P. Dennison,’ he muttered.

  He selected one covering August 1911, laid it on the table, and opened it, turning the pages rapidly. He paused at the programme of a long-forgotten race. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘I thought we should find it. Runagate, fifteen ton, helmsman P. Dennison.’

  He ran his eye rapidly down the letterpress. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘“Much interest will be centred on the Runagate, whose helmsman, P. Dennison, is only sixteen years of age.”’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Rawdon.

  Sir David closed the volume and replaced it in the locker. ‘I must go off and see him,’ he said. ‘You won’t mind if I leave you?’ He moved to the foot of the companion, then paused and came back into the saloon.

  ‘I say, Charles,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if we have him on board? I take it that if he comes he will be in bed for a day or so.’

  His guest knitted his great brows together in a frown.

  ‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t see that it matters very much if he’s the right sort. And I suppose another couple of evenings will see us through.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the baronet. He glanced out through a port over the water to the town, gabled and russet brown. ‘I don’t quite like to let him go to a hotel, and that seems the only alternative. Anyway, I’ll see what he looks like. If he’s the Dennison I’m thinking of, he won’t be any trouble to us.’

  He went on deck. Morris had reached the Irene and was helping the doctor on board. Sir David called for the cutter’s dinghy, and followed him.

  He boarded the Irene with some difficulty, and descended into the tiny, crowded saloon. There was no room for more than two to stand; on his arrival Morris perforce sat down on the settee opposite Dennison, who wished heartily that the lot of them would clear off and leave him to sort himself out. Sir David stood at the foot of the ladder and apologised in grave, incisive sentences, for the part his vessel had played in the encounter. Dennison responded lamely.

  It transpired that he had no plans beyond an idea to ‘stay here for the night and clear up the mess in the morning’.

  Sir David listened gravely. ‘I should like to suggest an alternative scheme,’ he said. ‘If you would care to come aboard the Clematis for a day or two, we have a vacant state-room. In that case, I could tow your vessel to Cowes tomorrow, to refit at Flanagan’s. That would take about three days; after that perhaps you would be fit enough to continue your cruise.’

  Dennison smiled wryly. ‘Flanagan won’t have any men to spare,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s fitting out now. He wouldn’t look at a little job like this.’

  The other did not smile. ‘Flanagan will do what I tell him,’ he said quietly; at the suggestion of power Dennison opened his eyes. ‘I can promise that your vessel will be ready for sea by the time you are able to sail her.’

  The doctor broke in with commendations of the scheme. ‘You won’t be able to do anything with that thumb for several days,’ he said. ‘And if I were you, I’d stay in bed for a day or so to rest those muscles. You’ll be glad enough to lie up once they begin to stiffen.’

  The truth of that statement was already painfully evident to Dennison. He made no more demur, but accepted the invitation. The meeting broke up; Sir David went on deck followed by the doctor. Dennison was left with the lean man.

  ‘I say,’ he said. ‘Was that Sir David Fisher?’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Morris. He yawned, and rose from the settee. ‘Look here, I’d better pack up some things for you. Don’t move; tell me what to get.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Dennison. ‘I haven’t any clothes fit to wear.’

  ‘No ladies,’ said Morris. ‘There’s only four of us on board. Sir David, his secretary, Captain Rawdon, and I. We can fit you up with anything you want.’

  So Dennison left the Irene and was rowed aboard the Clematis. He paused on deck to pass a word or two with the skipper, who thawed a little as they wagged their heads together over the damaged launch. A joyous remark leapt to his mind, ‘If I were you, I’d carry your launch on the port side in future’, but he refrained from uttering it, and went below with Morris to a little stateroom beside the door into the saloon, and was put to bed in a luxurious little berth with soft blankets and, incongruous on a yacht, lavender-smelling sheets. By and by the steward came and rigged a little table that hung on to the side of his berth, and brought him China tea and buttered toast, and several varieties of cake.
After that, being warm and replete for the first time that day and moderately comfortable so long as he kept still, he went to sleep. It was dark when he awoke; the lean man came with a supply of novels and an electric reading-lamp that plugged into a socket in the bulkhead. Dennison was accustomed to read in his bunk in a similar manner on board the Irene where there was a niche behind his pillow dark with the grease of a hundred candle ends. Presently came dinner.

  After dinner he made himself comfortable for the night, turned out his light, rolled painfully on to his uninjured side, and tried to sleep. It was a long time before he succeeded. His side gave him considerable pain, and there was a dull ache in his thumb intensified by the gentle pressure of the bedclothes. Now that he was alone and the events of the day were over, he had time to think; the memory of the last few days came flooding back into his mind, and were the more poignant for having been forgotten. He was in pain, and he was cruelly disappointed; he lay quiet in the darkness, till the darkness seemed to enter and become a part of him; a darkness that, perhaps, would never quite leave him – as it had never quite left Lanard. There would be alleviations, and the sting would go; other friendships would crop up, other ties and interests – but things would never quite be the same again as they had been in the Golden Age, when he had worked four years for Sheila.

  Perhaps the gods are merciful. At all events, they relented a little in the case of this young man and gave him a puzzle to occupy his attention, much as a hospital nurse will give a puzzle of cardboard, glass, and silver balls to a child in pain. Dennison’s cabin opened on to the companion, close beside the saloon door. From the saloon came a ceaseless murmur of voices from the men inside; they had settled down directly after dinner and had talked incessantly, a rumbling discussion deadened by the bulkhead. About ten o’clock, there was a step on deck, and someone came down the companion jingling a tray of tumblers; the nightcap, thought Dennison. The steward opened the door into the saloon and the conversation became audible. Sir David was the first to speak.