The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

The devil of it was that, now I was at sea, I remembered things I had forgotten in the bustle of fitting out. Patch had saved my life and, though he hadn’t referred to it that night he had come to see us at Lymington, I could remember the desperation that had prompted him to remind me of it in Paimpol. I had the sense of a debt owed, but not paid.

It wasn’t only that I felt I had failed in an obligation. Sitting there, with my hands on the wheel, feeling the ship lift to the swell and hearing the water creaming past, I wondered whether it wasn’t fear that was directing my course west towards Worbarrow Bay, instead of south to the Minkies. I had seen the Plateau des Minquiers in bad conditions, and deep down in my heart I knew I was scared of the place.

And the irony of it was that for four days we dived in Worbarrow Bay in conditions that were as perfect as I have ever seen them in the Channel — clear blue skies and a calm sea ruffled by only the slightest of breezes. The only limiting factor was the coldness of the water which affected us after a time, even though we were using our heaviest foam rubber suits. In those four days we located and buoyed the wreck of the LCT, cut through into the engine-room and cleared the way for lifting out the main engines, work that we had feared might take anything up to a month.

In the same time, if I had had the nerve to take the gamble, we could have cut our way into each of the Mary Deare’s holds. I thought about it sometimes as I worked down in the green depths with Sea Witch’s hull a dark shape in the translucent sea above me, and at night the tally of the day’s work seemed a reproach and I turned into my bunk in a mood of depression.

It was almost with relief that I woke on the Sunday to a grey dawn misted with rain and a forecast that announced a deep depression over the Atlantic moving eastward. By midday the seas were beginning to break; we got the anchors up and plugged it on the engine against a strong westerly wind for the shelter of Lulworth Cove.

I left early next morning for Southampton. It was stormy, and the downland hills, that crooked chalk fingers round the natural lagoon of the cove, were a gloomy green, shrouded in curtains of driving rain. Big seas piled up in the narrow entrance, filling the cove with an ugly swell, which broke in a roar on the shingle beach. Gusts of wind funnelled into the cove from the tops of the downs, flattening the water in sudden, violent swirls. Nobody was about. The whole chalk basin — so regular in its circle that it might have been the flooded crater of an extinct volcano — was deserted. There was only Sea Witch, rolling heavily, and the gulls, like scraps of paper, whirled about by the wind.

‘Better set an anchor watch if it gets any worse,’ I told Mike as he rowed me ashore. ‘It’s not very good holding ground here.’

He nodded, his face unnaturally solemn under his sou’wester. ‘What are you going to do if things go against him at this Enquiry?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I replied and my voice sounded peevish against the blatter of the wind. I was tired. I think we were both pretty tired. We had been diving hard for four days. ‘If I’d been going to do anything,’ I added, ‘the time to do it was last week, when we sailed from Lymington. The worst that can happen to him is that they’ll cancel his Master’s Certificate again.’ Mike didn’t say anything. His yellow oilskins gleamed with water in the grey light as he moved rhythmically back and forth to the swing of the oars, and over his shoulders the houses of Lulworth stood silent, with a grey, shut look, on the flank of the hill.

The dinghy grounded with a sudden jar and Mike jumped out into the backwash of a wave and hauled it up so that I could step out dry-footed in my shore-going clothes. We stood there in the rain for a moment, talking about ordinary, mundane things, things that had to be done around the boat. And then, as I turned to climb the beach, he checked me. ‘I just want you to know, John …’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘As far as I’m concerned you’re free to make any decision you like — whatever the risk.’

‘It’s very decent of you, Mike,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think-’

‘It’s not a question of being decent.’ He was grinning. ‘I just don’t like working with a man who’s got something on his mind.’ He left me then and pushed out in the dinghy, and I climbed the steep slope of the beach to the road where the bus was waiting for me.

CHAPTER TWO

It was almost eleven when I reached the court. I was late and the corridor leading to the courtroom was almost empty. The letter requesting my attendance gave me the guidance of one of the officials and as we reached a small door leading into the court, it opened and Snetterton came out. ‘Ah, Mr Sands.’ He blinked at me. ‘Come to see the fun, eh?’

‘I’m here as a witness,’ I said.