A Ravel of Waters

'I will. Keep your eyes skinned, Paul! Report the slightest movement or change. Wait – black out the crow's nest. The mast-head will be visible from the destroyer.'

'I did so as soon as I spotted her, skipper. I'm sitting alone in the dark. It's getting goddam cold.' ‘I’ll send you something hot.' 'I'll have to piss over the yard-arm.'

'Hold it till a rain squall comes. No one will know the difference.'

Kay fetched a vacuum flask of coffee for me to take to Brockton. On the ascent up the mast ladder, the cold increased step by step. If the wind kept mounting, the rain would turn to sleet by morning.

I joined Brockton and took a long look at the destroyer through the night glasses. Captain Irizar might have been wanting to make quite sure we identified his vessel. A bright light amidships – usually carried only by moored submarines – and an amber flashing light silhouetted the warship's main distinguishing feature: that heavy mast with its clutter of radar and firing gear, supported by the clumsy stay. All this was clearly visible since the destroyer had swung head to wind, like Jetwind, and her port side was parallel with us. Between the two ships rose a range of low hills.

As I concentrated on the destroyer I made an assessment of how she would have to negotiate The Narrows. In order to comply with the rules of navigation, the destroyer would have to keep over on the Navy Point side. As I planned the escape, we would then race through on the opposite flank, or Engineer Point. That would leave the warship's stayed mast exposed to Jetwind. Exposed and vulnerable. A recurring low cloud squall jetted across my vision, blotting out the Almirante Storni and everything else. 'Paul,' I said, 'if Dawson is right, I reckon these squalls will come with fewer intervals between them as the night progresses.' 'Should he be wrong?'

'I'm staking everything on his being right. He's lived in Port Stanley for years. The cloud clearance has to do with the wind heating itself as it pours down the hills. It dissipates the cloud temporarily until the point is reached when the overall temperature becomes too low for the phenomenon to be effective.'

Brockton asked very quietly, 'You're sure of what you plan to do when the Almirante Storni up-anchors, Peter? The consequences could be hell for a lot of people and things.'

'That's why I want to take all the responsibility on myself, Paul.'

'Okay, you're the boss. I for one wouldn't mind sharing it. Nor would John – or Kay.'

'Thanks,' I replied. 'But I prefer to work it out alone. Anyway, now we know where the destroyer has anchored there's no point in my hanging around here. Let me know the situation as soon as the squall has passed.' 'Will do.'

The four hours that followed were as nerve-wracking as a depth-charge hunt when a sub lies doggo and silent on the bottom of the sea, not daring to breathe. Eight bells – midnight. Change watch. My watch.

Tideman remained on duty with me. His anchor job was completed. The massive piece of metal dangling from the fore-yard gave Jetwind a lop-sided appearance. Jim Yell, bo'sun-quartermaster and top of Tideman's Adventure School team, took over the wheel. I would need the best and coolest helmsman for the job ahead.

The wind remained in the west quarter. It was intensifying and becoming colder all the time. By one o'clock it was gusting over thirty knots, a near-gale. That gave all the wind I needed. The sky was clear of cloud. The waves picked up size. Jetwind snubbed her anchor chain, heaved short on my orders to the last few fathoms for a tearaway start. The cards were all on the table.

With that strange camaraderie which crisis and the small hours seems to engender, Kay and I drew closer. Her calculations needed only minute onward adjustments. We checked them a score of times until we knew them by heart. On several occasions when I could stand the silence on the bridge no longer, I went to her in my cabin. We talked about her passage of Cape Horn in the Round the World race, my run in Albatros, of what a man thinks alone, alone on a wide, wide sea – and what a woman thinks. Four bells, 2.00. Half watch. The intercom screeched. Paul's voice was excited.

'Get on the bitch-box, and rouse out those sleeping sons of bitches below! The Almirante Storni is on her way!'

Chapter 14

'Hands to make sail!'

I found myself shouting over the ship's public address system – Paul's bitch-box – as if I were roaring orders on an open deck in a gale. 'All hands! All hands! At the double!'

Jim Yell leapt to the wheel as if a shot of adrenalin had picked him up bodily from his lounging-stool. Tideman moved swiftly to station at the big central walkaround console. 'Break out the anchor!' I ordered.

He spoke into a voice-tube. 'Bridge here! Full power for all hydraulics!'

He banged down the voice-pipe and manipulated the sail and mast controls, watching expectantly for my next command.