The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re taking you out to the Minkies.’

He stared at me. ‘The Minkies.’ He repeated it slowly, his fuddled mmd not taking it in. ‘You’re going out to the Mary Deare?’ And then he was on his feet, the glass crashing to the floor, his body jarring the table. ‘You mean it?’ He lurched across to me, catching hold of me with both his hands. ‘You’re not saying that just to keep me quiet. You mean it, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean it.’ It was like trying to convince a child.

‘My God!’ he said. ‘My God, I thought I was finished.’ He was suddenly laughing, shaking me, gripping Mike’s hand. ‘I think I’d have gone mad,’ he said. ‘The uncertainty. Ten years and you get a ship and you’re in command again, and then … You don’t know what it’s like when you suddenly lose confidence in yourself.’ He pushed his hands up through his hair, his eyes alight and eager. I’d never seen him like that before. He turned and scrabbled up a whole pile of fivers that were lying on the table. ‘Here. You take them.’ He thrust them into my hand. ‘I don’t want them. They’re yours now.’ He wasn’t drunk, just a little crazed — the reaction of nerves strung too taut.

I pushed the notes away. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ I said. ‘Can you navigate into the Minkies without a chart?’

His mind seemed to snap suddenly into place. He hesitated — a seaman considering a nautical problem.. ‘You mean from Les Sauvages to the Mary Deare?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded slowly. He was frowning, his mind groping for the bearings. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure I can remember. It’s only a question of the tide. You’ve got a nautical almanac?’

I nodded and it was settled. I had charts for the Channel. All I lacked was the large-scale chart of the Minkies. ‘We’ll hoist sail in here, before we get the hook up,’ I said. I reached for my monkey jacket and slipped it on, and then we went up on deck and got the covers off the main and mizzen. I sent Mike to get the engine going whilst Patch and I put the battens in and hoisted the mainsail, tacking it down so that the luff was set up taut. The starter whined and the engine caught, throbbing at the deck under my feet. Sea Witch was suddenly alive. We hoisted the dinghy on board then and the ship bustled with activity as we got her ready for sea.

It was whilst I was up for’ard, hanking the big yankee jib on to the forestay, that I heard it — the beat of an engine coming in from the sea. I stood there for a moment, listening, and then I extinguished the riding light and ran aft, shouting to Mike to get the hook up. It might be just another yacht coming in, but it wasn’t the night for yachtsmen to be risking their boats, feeling their way into a place like Lulworth, and I had no desire to be caught in here with Patch on board. We were outside the law and I wanted to get clear of the cove without being seen. I switched off the lights below and sent Patch for’ard to help Mike, and then I was at the wheel and the chain was coming in with a run as I manoeuvred Sea Witch up to her anchor on the engine.

The sound of the boat coming in was quite clear now, the beat of its engine throbbing back from the cliffs. The white of her masthead light appeared in the gap, bobbing to the swell. The green eye of a starboard light showed, and then the red as she turned in.

‘Up and down,’ Mike called.

‘Leave it there,’ I called to him. ‘Hoist the yankee.’

The big jib floated up, a blur of white in the darkness. I hauled in the sheet and Sea Witch began to glide through the water as I swung her bows towards the gap. The incoming boat was right in the entrance now. ‘What do you think it is — the police?’ Mike asked as he came back aft to help trim the sheets.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Get the mizzen hoisted.’ For an instant I saw Patch’s face, a white glimmer in the darkness as he stared seaward, and then he went aft to help Mike. I was keeping the engine throttled right back so that they wouldn’t hear it above the noise of their own engine, hoping I could slip out without their seeing us in the darkness.

There wasn’t a great deal of wind in the cove, but we were moving, steadily gathering way. The other boat came in slowly. She had a spotlight and she flashed it on the rocks by the entrance, holding a middle course between them. And then she was inside and we were bearing straight down on her. Under sail I had no chance of giving her a wide berth. I just had to hold my course and hope that she’d turn away.

But she held straight on and we passed her so close that I could see the whole shape of her, a big sea-going motor boat with flared bow and a long sloping deckhouse. I even caught a glimpse of the man in the wheelhouse, a dim figure peering at us out of the night.

And then their spotlight stabbed the darkness, momentarily blinding me, picking out the triangle of our mainsail in glaring white, and a voice hailed us.