The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

‘Well, she can’t have them.’ I thought he was being callous and got up and went over to the porthole. The engines had been slowed. We were coming into the Rade and I could see the tourist hotels of Dinard climbing the hill from the quay, deserted and forlorn in the rain. ‘He was running around the ship, screaming like a soul in torment.’ He pushed his plate away from him. ‘I had to lock him in his cabin, and in the morning he was dead.’ He pulled out the packet of cigarettes he had been given and opened it with trembling fingers, tearing at it viciously. His face was deathly pale in the flare of the match.

‘DTs?’ I said.

‘No, not DTs. I only discovered afterwards …’ He dragged on his cigarette, pushing his hand up through his hair. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now.’ He pulled himself to his feet. ‘We’re nearly in, aren’t we?’

The ship was moving very slowly now. Lock gates glided past. Boots rang on the deck overhead and there was the clatter of a donkey engine. ‘I think we’re going into the basin now,’ I told him.

‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘You’re through with the Mary Deare now.’ He had started pacing restlessly up and down. ‘God! I almost wish I’d gone down with the ship.’

I stared at him. ‘It’s true then… You did order the crew to take to the boats. That story about your being knocked out-’

He turned on me, his face livid. ‘Of course, I didn’t order them to take to the boats. But if they stick to that story…’ He flung away towards the other porthole, staring out at the grey daylight.

‘But why should they?’ I demanded. ‘If it isn’t true-’

‘What’s truth got to do with it?’ He stared at me angrily. ‘The bastards panicked and now they’re saying I ordered them to abandon ship because they’ve got to cover themselves somehow. A bunch of damned cowards — they’ll cling together. You’ll see. When it comes to the Formal Enquiry…’ He gave a little shrug of his shoulders. ‘I’ve been through all this before.’ He said it slowly, half to himself, his head turned away, staring out through the porthole again at the waste ground with the rusty railway wagons. He muttered something about it being a strange coincidence, and then a door slammed and there was the sound of voices, a medley of French and English. He swung round, staring at the door and said, ‘You will, of course, confine yourself to a statement of the reasons for your presence on board the Mary Deare.’ He spoke quickly, nervously. ‘You are in the position of a passenger and any comments-’ The door opened and he half turned, facing it.

It was Captain Fraser, and with him were two French officials. Smiles, bows, a torrent of French, and then the shorter of the two said in English: ‘I regret, Monsieur le Capitaine, I have bad news for you. Since half an hour I have heard on the radio that some bodies have been washed ashore on Les Heaux. Also some wreckage.’

‘From the Mary Deare?’ Patch asked.

‘Mais oui.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘The lighthouse men on Les Heaux have not identified them, but there is no other ship in distress.’

‘Les Heaux is an island just north of the He de Brehat — about forty miles west of here,’ Fraser said.

‘I know that.’ Patch moved a step towards the official. ‘The survivors,’ he said. ‘Was there a man called Higgins amongst them?’

The officer shrugged. ‘I do not know. No official list of survivors is yet completed.’ He hesitated. ‘Monsieur le Capitaine, if you will come to the Bureau with me it will assist me greatly. Also it will be more simple. The formalities, you understand …’ He said it apologetically, but it was clear he had made up his mind.

‘Of course,’ Patch said, but I could see he didn’t like it. His eyes glanced quickly from one to the other of them, and then he went across the room and passed through the lane they opened out for him to the door.

The official turned to follow him, but then stopped and looked back at me. ‘Monsieur Sands?’ he enquired.

I nodded.

‘I understand your boat is waiting for you in Saint Peter Port. If you will give my friend here the necessary particulars and your address in England, I do not think we need detain you at all.’ He gave me a quick, friendly smile. ‘Bon voyage, mon ami.’

‘Au revoir, monsieur,’ I said. ‘Et merci, mille fois.’

His assistant took the particulars, asked a few questions and then he, too, departed. I was alone, and I sat there in a sort of coma, conscious of the bustle and hubbub of passengers descending to the quay, yet not sure that it was real. I must have dozed off for the next thing I knew the steward was shaking me. ‘Sorry to wake you, sir, but I’ve brought Miss Taggart. Captain’s orders, sir.’

She was standing just inside the door; a small, neat girl, her hair catching the light from the porthole just the way it had done in that photograph. ‘You’re Air Sands, aren’t you?’

I nodded and got to my feet. ‘You want Captain Patch.’ I started to explain that he had gone ashore, but she interrupted. ‘What happened to my father, please?’