The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

I told them about the bruise on his jaw, about the coal dust and the smoke-blackened haggardness of his face. I told them how we’d sweated down there in the stokehold to raise steam on that one boiler, how we’d got the pumps going, how we’d used the engines to keep her stern to the wind and how the seas had swept across her submerged bows in thundering cataracts of white water. And I left it at that, simply saying that we had finally abandoned her on the morning of the second day.

The questions started then. Had Patch made any comments to me about the crew having abandoned ship? Could I give the Court any idea of the Mary Deare’s position at the time we had taken to the dinghy? Did I think that, if there had been no gale, the ship could have safely got to some port?

Sir Lionel Falcett rose to his feet and put the same questions that Snetterton had asked me — about the cargo, the holds, Patch. ‘You lived with this man through a desperate forty-eight hours. You shared his fears and his hopes. Surely he must have said something, made some comment?’ And I replied that we had had little opportunity for talking. I told them again of our exhaustion, the fury of the seas, the moment-to-moment fear that the ship would go down under us.

And then suddenly it was over and I walked back across the floor of the court, feeling like a rag that has been squeezed dry. Hal gripped my arm as I sat down. ‘Magnificent!’ he whispered. ‘You’ve damn’ near made a hero of the man. Look at the Press desk.’ And I saw that it was emptying hurriedly.

‘Ian Fraser!’ Holland was on his feet again and Captain Fraser was making his way across the court.

It was routine evidence of how he had picked us up, and then he was released and Janet Taggart was called.

She went into the witness box pale as death, but with her head up and her face a tight little defensive mask. Holland explained that he had called her at this stage in order to release her from the painful ordeal of listening to any further statements that might be made by witnesses about her father. He then took her gently through a description of her father as she had known him — his letters, coming unfailingly from every port he visited, his presents, the money to take her on from college to university, his care of her after the death of her mother when she was seven. ‘I never knew how wonderful he had been as a father until these last few years, when I was old enough to understand how he must have scraped and saved and worked to give me the education I’ve had.’ She described him as she had last seen him, and then she read the letter he had written her from Rangoon. She read it in a small, trembling voice, and his love and concern for her were there in every line of it.

It was very painful to hear her, knowing the man was dead, and when she had finished there was a murmur of men clearing their throats and shifting uneasily in their seats.

‘That will be all, Miss Taggart,’ Holland said with that gentleness that he had used with her throughout her evidence. But she didn’t move from the witness box. She had taken a picture postcard from her bag and she stood with it clutched in her hand, looking across at Patch. And the look on her face sent a cold shiver through me, as she said, ‘A few days ago I received a postcard from Aden. It had been delayed in the post.’ She shifted her gaze to Bowen-Lodge. ‘It’s from my father. May I read part of it please?’

He nodded his permission and she went on: ‘My father wrote: “The owner has engaged a man called Patch to be my first officer in place of poor old Adams.”’ She wasn’t reading it. She was staring straight at Bowen-Lodge, the postcard still gripped in her hand. She knew it by heart.’ “I do not know what will come of this. Rumour has it that he stranded a ship once, deliberately. But whatever happens I promise you it shall not be of my doing. God go with you, Janie, and think of me. If all goes well, I shall keep my promise this time and see you again at the end of the voyage.”’ Her voice broke on a whisper. The court held its breath. She was like a spring coiled. too tight and near to breaking.

She held the card out to Holland and he took it. ‘Witness is excused,’ Bowen-Lodge said. But she had turned and was facing Patch across the court. Wildly she accused him of dragging her father’s name in the mud to save himself. She had checked on the loss of the Belle Isle. She knew the truth now and she was going to see that the Court knew it. Bowen-Lodge beat on his desk with his gavel. Holland was at her side, remonstrating with her. But she ignored him, and Patch sat there, white-faced and appalled, as she blamed him for the fires, for the flooded holds, for the whole wreckage of her father’s ship. ‘You’re a monster,’ she sobbed as they dragged her from the witness box. And then she went suddenly limp and allowed herself to be hurried out of the court, her whole body convulsed with the passion of her tears.