The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

I hesitated, wondering whether he wasn’t too exhausted to answer rationally. ‘It’s just that I can’t understand why you put the fire out and yet didn’t bother to get the pumps going. I thought you’d been stoking that boiler. But it hadn’t been touched.’ I paused there, a little uncertain because of the strange look on his face. ‘What had you been doing?’

‘God damn you!’ His eyes suddenly blazed. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Only …’

‘Only what? What are you getting at?’

‘It was just the coal dust. You were covered with it and I wondered…’ I saw his hand clench and I added quickly, ‘You can’t expect me not to be curious.’

His body relaxed slowly. ‘No. No, I suppose not.’ He stared down at his empty glass. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little tired, that’s all.’

‘Would you like another drink?’

He nodded, sunk in silence again.

He didn’t speak until the drinks came, and then he said, ‘I’m going to be quite honest with you, Sands. I’m in a hell of a spot.’ He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking down at his glass, watching the liquor cling to the sides of it as he swirled it gently round and round.

‘Because of Higgins?’

He nodded. ‘Partly. Higgins is a liar and a blackguard. But I can’t prove it. He was in this thing right from the start, but I can’t prove that either.’ He looked at me suddenly. ‘I’ve got to get out to her again.’

‘To the Mary Deare?’ It seemed odd that he should think that it was his responsibility. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Surely the owners will arrange-’

‘The owners!’ He gave a contemptuous little laugh. ‘If the owners knew she was on the Minkies…’ And then abruptly he changed the subject and began questioning me about my own plans. ‘You said something about being interested in salvage and converting that yacht of yours into a diving tender.’ That had been up in his cabin when he’d been half-doped with liquor and exhaustion. I was surprised he remembered it. ‘You’ve got all the equipment, have you — air pumps and diving suits?’

‘We’re aqualung divers,’ I said. His sudden interest had switched my mind to the problems that lay ahead — the conversion, the fitting out, all the business of starting on our first professional salvage operation.

‘I’ve been thinking…’ He was drumming nervously on the marble-topped table. ‘That boat of yours — how long will it take to convert her?’

‘Oh, about a month,’ I said. And then it dawned on me. ‘You aren’t suggesting that we take you out to the Mary Deare, are you?’

He turned to me then. ‘I’ve got to get back to her,’ he said.

‘But, good God — why?’ I asked. ‘The owners will arrange for the salvage-’

‘Damn the owners!’ he snarled. ‘They don’t know she’s there yet.’ He leaned urgently towards me. ‘I tell you, I’ve got to get out to her.’

‘But why?’

His eyes gradually dropped from my face. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he muttered. And then he said, ‘Listen, Sands. I’m not a salvage man. But I’m a seaman, and I know that ship can be refloated.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘Another gale and she’ll be flooded — she’ll probably break up.’

‘I don’t think so. She’ll have water in her, but she won’t be flooded. It isn’t as though she’s sunk,’ he added. ‘At low water you could get pumps operating from her deck and, with all the apertures sealed up …’ He hesitated. ‘I’m trying to put it to you as a business proposition. That ship is lying out there and you and I are the only people who know she’s there.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I said. The effrontery of the proposition staggered me. He didn’t seem to understand that there were laws of salvage, that even if it were possible to refloat the Mary Deare, it involved agreement between the owners, the insurance people, the shippers — everybody.

‘Think it over,’ he said urgently. ‘It may be weeks before some fisherman finds her there.’ He gripped hold of my arm. ‘I need your help, Sands. I’ve got to get into that for’ard hold. I’ve got to see for myself.’

‘See what?’

‘That hold didn’t flood because the ship was unseaworthy. At least,’ he added, ‘that’s what I believe. But I’ve got to have proof.’

I didn’t say anything, and he leaned towards me across the table, his eyes on mine, hard and urgent. ‘If you won’t do it…’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I’ve nobody else who’ll help me. Damn it, man! I saved your life. You were dangling at the end of that rope. Remember? I helped you then. Now I’m asking you to help me.’

I looked away towards the square, feeling a little embarrassed, not understanding what it was that he was so worried about. And then the police car that had brought me to Paimpol drew up at the kerb, and I watched with relief as the gendarme got out and came into the bistro.

‘Monsieur — if you wish to catch your aeroplane …’ He nodded towards the car.

‘Yes, of course.’ I got to my feet. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now.’

Patch was staring up at me. ‘What’s your address in England?’ he asked.

I gave him the name of the boatyard at Lymington. He nodded, frowning, and looked down at his empty glass. I wished him luck then and turned to go.