The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

The wind had caught our stern now and we were swinging. Not two cables’ length away an eddy marked a submerged rock and the heavy overfalls broke against each other in violent collision, sending up great gouts of water. And beyond was a cataract of broken water where the waves spilled in tumbled confusion, raging acres of surf. A big sea hit us, thudding against the ship’s side and rolling in a white tide across the foredeck. Tons of water crashed down on the bridge. The whole ship shuddered. ‘Aren’t you going to get the engines started?’ I demanded.

He was standing with his back to me, staring out to starboard. He hadn’t heard me. ‘For God’s sake!’ I cried. ‘We’re being carried right on to the Minkies.’

‘We’re all right for the moment.’ He said it quietly, as though to soothe me.

But I didn’t believe him. How could we be all right? All ahead of us was nothing but reefs with the seas pouring white across miles of submerged rock. Once we struck… ‘We’ve got to do something,’ I said desperately.

He didn’t answer. He was staring through the glasses out beyond the starboard bow, his legs straddled against the sickening lunges of the ship.

I didn’t know what to do. He seemed calm and in control of the situation, and yet I knew that he had gone physically beyond the limits of endurance — mentally, too, perhaps. ‘We’ve got to get clear of the Minkies,’ I told him. ‘Once we’re clear of the Minkies we’re all right.’ I let go of the wheel and started for the companion ladder. ‘I’m going to start the engines.’

But he grabbed hold of my arm as I passed him. ‘Don’t you understand?’ he said. ‘We’re sinking.’ His face was as stony as the gaze of his dark eyes. ‘I didn’t tell you before, but water is flooding through that bulkhead. I had a look at it just before I relieved you.’ He let go of my arm then and stared through the glasses again, searching for something in the grey, scud-filled dawn.

‘How long-’ I hesitated, unwilling to put it into words. ‘How long before she goes down?’

‘I don’t know. A few minutes, an hour, maybe two.’ He lowered the glasses with a little grunt of satisfaction. ‘Well, it’s a slender chance, but…’ He turned and stared at me as though assessing my worth. ‘I want pressure in that boiler for ten to fifteen minutes’ steaming. Are you prepared to go below and continue stoking?! He paused and then added, ‘I should warn you that you’ll stand no chance at all if that bulkhead goes whilst you’re down there.’

I hesitated. ‘For how long?’

‘An hour and a half I should say.’ He glanced quickly away to starboard, half nodded his head and then caught hold of my arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a hand for the first hour.’

‘What about the ship?’ I asked. ‘If she strikes on one of these reefs …’

‘She won’t strike,’ he answered. ‘We’re drifting down just about a mile inside the buoys.’

Down in the stokehold there was a strange sense of remoteness from danger. The warmth and the furnace glow and the blaze of the lights were comfortingly normal. Now that I could no longer see the seas thundering over the reefs I was enveloped in a false sense of security. Only the boom of the waves crashing against the hollow sides of the ship and the bright rivulets of water streaming from the started rivet holes reminded us of the danger we were in; that and the forward slant of the decks and the water sluicing up out of the bilges, black with coal dust, filthy with oil.

We stoked like madmen, shoulder-to-shoulder, flinging coal into the furnace with utter disregard of exhaustion. It seemed an eternity, but that bulkhead held and finally Patch looked at his watch and flung his shovel down. ‘I’m going up to the bridge,’ he said. ‘You’ll be on your own now. Keep on stoking until I ring for full speed. Then, when you’ve got the engines going, come straight up to the bridge. All right?’

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He was pulling his clothes on and I watched him as he staggered through to the engine-room and disappeared. The sound of the waves thundering against the hull seemed louder now. I looked down at my wrist watch. It was twenty past seven. I started to shovel coal again, conscious all the time of the hull plates towering above me and of the slope of the decks; conscious that at any moment this lit world might plunge below the seas. Water was sloshing about in the bilges, spilling over on to the plates and swirling round my feet.

Half-past seven! Quarter to eight! Would he never ring for the engines? Once I paused, leaning on my shovel, certain that the deck below my feet was at a steeper angle, watching that streaming bulkhead and wondering what the hell he was doing up there on the bridge. What was this slender chance he had talked of? Exhausted, my nerves strung taut with fear and the long wait, I suddenly wasn’t sure of him any more. What did I know about him? My first impressions — of a man unbalanced by circumstances — returned, stronger now because more dangerous.