The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

A hot shower, dry clothes and then we were taken into the officers’ saloon and a steward was bustling about, pouring tea, bringing us plates of bacon and eggs. The normality of it — the incredible normality of it! It was like waking from a nightmare. The Mary Deare and the gale and the tooth-edged rocks of the Minkies seemed part of another life, utterly divorced from the present. And then the Captain came in. ‘So you’re the survivors from the Mary Deare.’ He stood, looking from one to the other of us. ‘Is either of you the owner of the yacht Sea Witch?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m John Sands.’

‘Good. I’m Captain Fraser, I’ll have a radio message sent to Peter Port right away. A Colonel Lowden brought her in. He was very worried about you. He and Duncan were on board yesterday, listening to the radio reports of the search. They had planes out looking for you.’ He turned to Patch. ‘I take it you’re one of the Mary Deare’s officers?’ His voice was harder, the Scots accent more pronounced.

Patch had risen. ‘Yes. I’m the master of the Mary Deare. Captain Patch.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m most grateful to you for picking us up.’

‘Better thank my first officer. It was he who spotted you.’ He was staring at Patch, small blue eyes looking out of a craggy face. ‘You say your name is Patch?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re the master of the Mary Deare?’

‘Yes.’

The iron-grey brows lifted slightly and then settled in a frown. ‘I understood that a Captain Taggart was master of the Mary Deare.’

‘Yes, he was. But he died.’

‘When was that?’ There was a sharpness in the way the question was put.

‘Just after we cleared Port Said — early this month.’

‘I see.’ Fraser stared at him stonily. And then, consciously relaxing: ‘Well, don’t let me interrupt your meal. You must be hungry. Sit down. Sit down, both of you.’ He glanced at his watch and then called to the steward to bring another cup. ‘I’ve just time before we go into St Malo.’ He sat down, leaning his elbows on the table, his blue eyes staring at us, full of curiosity. ‘Well now, what happened, Captain Patch? The air has been thick with messages about the Mary Deare for the last twenty-four hours.’ He hesitated, waiting. ‘You’ll be glad to know that a boatload of survivors was washed up on lie de Brehat yesterday afternoon.’ Patch still said nothing. ‘Oh, come; you can’t expect me not to be curious.’ His tone was friendly. ‘The survivors report that there was a fire and you ordered the crew to abandon ship. That was Thursday night and yet Lowden told me-’

‘I ordered them to abandon ship?’ Patch was staring at him. ‘Is that what they say?’

‘According to a French report, yes. They abandoned ship shortly after 22.30 hours. Yet at 09.30 the following morning Lowden saw the Mary Deare…’ He hesitated, silenced by Patch’s hard, uncompromising stare. ‘Damn it, man!’ he said in sudden exasperation. ‘What happened? Is the Mary Deare afloat or sunk or what?’

Patch didn’t say anything for a moment. He seemed to be thinking it out. Finally he said, ‘A full statement will be made to the proper authorities. Until then-’ He was still staring at Fraser. ‘Until then you’ll excuse me if I don’t talk about it.’

Fraser hesitated, unwilling to let it go at that. Then he glanced at his watch again, drank up his tea and rose to his feet. ‘Very proper of you, Captain,’ he said, his voice formal, a little huffed. ‘Now I must go. We’re just coming into St Malo. Meantime, please accept the hospitality of my ship. Anything you want, ask the steward.’ As he went out, he paused in the doorway. ‘I think I should tell you, Captain, that we have a young lady on board — a Miss Taggart. She’s Captain Taggart’s daughter. She flew out to Peter Port yesterday, and when she heard survivors had come ashore on the coast of France, she came on with us.’ He paused, and then came back a few steps into the saloon. ‘She doesn’t know her father is dead. She’s hoping he’s amongst the survivors.’ Again a slight hesitation. ‘I presume you notified the owners?’

‘Of course.’

‘I see. Well, it’s a pity they didn’t see fit to inform his next-of-kin.’ He said it angrily. ‘I’ll have my steward bring her to you.’ And then in a softer tone: ‘Break it to her gently, man. She’s a nice wee thing and she obviously adored her father.’ He left then and a silence descended on the room. Patch was eating with the concentration of a man shovelling energy back into his body. There was nothing relaxed about him.

‘Well, what did he die of?’ I asked him.

‘Who?’ He looked at me with a quick frown.

‘Taggart.’

‘Oh, Taggart. He died of drink.’ He resumed his eating, as though dismissing the matter from his mind.

‘Good God!’ I said. ‘You can’t tell her that.’

‘No, of course not,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ll just tell her he died of heart failure. That was probably the medical cause anyway.’

‘She’ll want to know details.’