The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

Briefly he enumerated them: the damage sustained by the ship in the for’ard holds, the water making headway against the pumps, the shoring of the stokehold bulkhead, the fire in the radio shack, the disappearance of Dellimare; and then, after rounding Ushant, the fire in Number Three hold, the abandonment of the ship by all except the captain, the discovery of the ship still afloat the following morning, her final abandonment. He punched these events home to the packed courtroom one after another in terse, hard sentences, so that the effect of them was cumulative.

‘Twelve men went to their death, gentlemen,’ he added, after a pause, his voice now very quiet. ‘Went to their death in a mad scramble to get away from a ship that, in point of fact, was in no immediate danger of sinking. That in itself is significant.’ He had turned and was facing the Chairman of the Court. ‘It is not for me to attempt to influence the Court in any way, merely to present the facts. But I am entitled to draw your attention to certain points, and the points, Mr Learned Chairman, to which I wish to draw the attention of the Court are — firstly, the succession of incidents affecting the safety and sea-keeping ability of the ship, and secondly, the abandonment of a ship that was to stay afloat in gale conditions for more than 48 hours. I submit that this is one of the most extraordinary cases to come before a Formal Enquiry and one that may, as a result of your decision, have far-reaching consequences for one or more of the people here in this courtroom today.’

In making that pronouncement his eyes had roved the room — to the lawyers representing the various interested parties across the floor of the court, to the public gallery, and, finally, he had turned his body round and had stared at the witnesses. His gaze was cold and hard and accusing.

Still facing the witnesses, he went on: ‘I have referred to a lack of consistency in the evidence given on oath in depositions made by the various witnesses. Those same witnesses, and some others, will be giving evidence on oath before this Court. But here there is a difference; you can be cross-examined on your evidence in the witness box by myself or by any or all of the representatives of the interested parties.’ He paused and then added, ‘I would remind you that perjury is a serious offence.’

There was complete silence as he stared at us, and some of the Mary Deare’s crew shifted uneasily in their seats. Abruptly, he sat down. For perhaps thirty seconds he let the silence his speech had produced hang over the court, and then he got slowly to his feet again and called ‘Gideon Patch’.

Patch was sitting quite still, his eyes fixed across the court — fixed on nothing — and he didn’t move. I thought for a moment that he hadn’t heard his name called. But then he turned his head and looked at Holland, and quietly, like a man who cannot believe that the moment has finally come, he got to his feet. He seemed to brace himself to meet the situation and, with a firm, decisive tread, he crossed the floor of the court and took his stand in the witness box.

The movement released the tension in the court so that there was a sudden murmur of voices and shifting of feet that continued whilst the oath was being administered and then gradually died away as Holland began his questions, Patch answering them in a voice that was barely audible.

His name was Gideon Stephen Patch. He had been educated at Pangbourne, joined the Merchant Service as a cadet in 1935, Mate’s Certificate 1941, Master’s Certificate 1944, first command 1945, the Belle Isle incident, the years on the beach; the wasted, frustrated years — Holland took him through it all, fact after fact in that same bored voice as though he were tracing the history of a parcel sent through the post. And then the technical details: Did he consider the Mary Deare seaworthy? Had he examined the fire-fighting equipment? Had he inspected the boats himself? Did he regard the crew as efficient? Were the officers, in his opinion, competent?

And Patch, once over the hurdle of the Belle Isle sinking and the suspension of his Master’s Certificate, began noticeably to relax and to gain confidence. It was all so impersonal. Yes the boats were all right, he had inspected them personally. The crew were average — he had sailed with worse. The officers? He would rather not comment. Some were good, some were not.

‘And the captain?’ The question was put in the same flat, bored voice.

Patch hesitated, and then said, ‘I imagine he was a good seaman.’

‘You imagine?’ Holland’s dark brows lifted slightly.

‘Captain Taggart was a sick man, sir.’

‘Then why was he not put ashore?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The first officer, Adams, was put ashore because he was sick. Why wasn’t Captain Taggart put ashore, if he was also sick?’

‘I imagine the owners thought him fit enough to complete the voyage.’

‘By the owners you mean Mr Dellimare?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, what was the nature of Captain Taggart’s illness?’