Dead and Alive (7 page)

Soon after we had righted the boat and had started work on the superstructure, something happened which didn’t seem important at the time and yet was strangely linked with my fortunes.

I received a package from Bill Trevor. It contained letters addressed to us care of his paper. In his letter he apologised for not having told us that he was a newspaper man and intended to use us as copy and trusted that we were not offended by anything he had written in the article. “One or two of these letters, which I have been cad enough to open, are quite intriguing. Your pictures seem to have gone over big—you’ll find quite a number of girls have written asking to be included in your crew. Some have offered to put up money. And even better, some have included photographs. I like Judy—I’d sign her on as cook! And there’s a rather pathetic letter from a Mrs. Dupont. I have done a follow-up story on the spate of letters you are receiving whilst you struggle with your own refitting …”

That evening I read through them all. There were a hundred and twenty-four of them. I was astonished by the frankness of some, by the desire for adventure of others and by the general absence of any realisation of the cramped living conditions on board an L.C.T. And then I came to Mrs. Dupont’s letter:

26, Doughty Street,

London, W.C.
I

5th July.

D
EAR
S
IRS
,

I understand from Mr. Trevor’s article that you will be sailing in the Mediterranean. You are both men who have seen something of the horror of war. And I think, therefore, you will understand and do me the favour I ask.

I am an Englishwoman. I married a Frenchman in 1920. I had met him when I was driving an ambulance in the last war. We had two children—a boy and then a girl. In 1940, when the breakthrough occurred, my husband sent Monique to his sister in Italy. A week later I heard that Pierre had been killed on the Meuse. Next day my husband was shot by a band of the Croix de Feu. I joined the stream of refugees to Bordeaux. And because I was English they took me off.

Since she left me in May, 1940, I have had no word of Monique. She was 16 when she went to Italy. Now she should be 22. But I don’t know even if she is still alive. It is horrible not knowing what has happened to her. My husband and my son—I know about them. Monique is all I have left of my life. The thought of her has kept me going through these long weary years.

I have worked to save enough to go to Italy. But recently I was ill and a typist’s savings soon disappear. I have never asked anybody to do this because I wanted to do it myself. But now I feel desperate and your pictures showed you warm-hearted, adventurous men who might be willing to do something for a stranger.

She went to Signora Marie Galliani, Via Santa
Cecilia 17, Napoli. I have written and cabled since the war—the cable came back marked “Whereabouts unknow.” Attached to this letter you will find a photograph of Monique taken when she was fifteen. Please don’t lose it, for it is the only one I have of her. I enclose a stamped addressed envelope—if you cannot undertake this mission for me will you be kind enough to let me have the photograph back. I would come down to see you, but the truth is that I cannot afford the fare. Will you, therefore, please take the will for the deed and let this letter plead for me as though I were speaking to you myself.

I am sorry to burden you with a request that must come at a time when you have many practical matters to deal with. But you would be doing a great kindness to a woman who has only memories for company if you would find out what has happened to Monique.

Yours beseechingly,

Pinned to the letter was a worn and faded photograph of a long-legged girl with an oval face and eyes and mouth that had a suggestion of laughter. I stared at it for some time, seated on the half-completed bridge as the slanting rays of the dying sun threw the shadow of the ship on the wet sands. I was thinking of the docks at Naples, of the narrow dirty streets below the Castello San Elmo, of Terracina, Cassino, Formia, and all the other towns where the rubble had been ground fine in the jaws of war. This photograph might be the likeness of a beautiful girl or the memory of a skeleton buried beneath a shattered building.

I wrote to Mrs. Dupont that night and told her that I would do what I could. Then I locked the letter and the photograph away in the little jewel case that contained Jenny’s trinkets.

Two days later Stuart returned, just as we were starting to mix the concrete for the wardroom. He was nervous
and excited. “Well, how did you get on?” I asked. “Have you got a cargo?”

“Come into the wheelhouse,” he said. From his suitcase he pulled out two bottles of Scotch. “Get one of those uncorked,” he suggested, “whilst I get the glasses—and prepare yourself for a shock.”

“Well, what is it?” I asked, as he poured out two stiff drinks. I was feeling worried to the depths of my stomach. I realised then how much the ship had come to mean to me.

“I’ll tell you the worst first,” he said. “I’ve mortgaged the boat—£7,500. I should have wired you first. But I had a chance to purchase some Government transport and I didn’t want to miss it. At the same time I was able to get a lot of Bedford spares cheap, including tyres.”

“You mean,” I said, “we no longer own the boat.”

He nodded. “But look, David,” he said. “We’re out to trade, aren’t we? To start trading you must have money and the only capital asset we had was the boat. I know you were expecting me to arrange for a cargo—ourselves simply to earn money as carriers. But I saw a lot of Italians in London and they all told me the same thing—Italy was short of transport and of spares for the transport they had. At the end of the war they bought up large numbers of old Army lorries, mainly Dodges and Bedfords. Now they’re needing spares and tyres to keep them on the roads. When I heard that the Government was disposing of some W.D. transport I decided to act at once and get in first. I bought five quite good Bedfords and a quantity of spares. They’re garaged in a barn belonging to a friend of mine down on Romney Marsh and I thought of sending Boyd up to get them painted—they’re in good running order, but they don’t look up to much. Now I’m convinced that I can sell them to an Italian in London on a payment on delivery basis. He’ll also buy the spares. I reckon we’ll make about 100 per cent profit. The spares can be stowed under the trucks and I thought we’d load the trucks with cigarettes which are in very short supply in Italy. Now
does that sound a good proposition? We’ve got to risk something if we’re going to establish ourselves. And I’ve got the export permits.”

I had to admit it sounded all right. His enthusiasm was, as always, infective. “What about payment?” I asked. “Will they pay in sterling?”

“No, in goods,” he said. “Their difficulty is foreign exchange. If they could purchase direct they would have done so themselves long ago. That’s why there is a big profit in the deal if we can barter for a cargo that we can sell. Now I thought of opening a wholesale and mail order business in London for wines and liqueurs. Vermouth, Marsala, Spumante, Grappa, Benedetto, Strega, Triple Sec, Anisette,—there’ll be some good stuff produced this season and cheap.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be slow,” he admitted. “But it’ll be profitable. Over the next twelve months I figure that we’ve got a good chance of making a profit of something over £10,000 and at the same time of establishing a sound business.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” I said.

“Well, do I go ahead?” he asked, “Or do you think of something better?”

“You go ahead,” I said. “If you’re prepared to take the risk, so am I.”

“Right,” he said. “Now this is what I propose to do. I’ve found a friend of mine who’s got a job he doesn’t like. He has a little money put by and we’ll take him into partnership on the wine side of the business, the basis being that he runs it, we supply him at cost plus carriage and we split the profit three ways. Incidentally, he’s already agreed to the idea and furthermore he is prepared to quit his job forthwith and start canvassing the big grocery stores for advance orders so that we’ve got an idea of how it’s likely to work in practice and what wines and liqueurs are preferred before we accept such a cargo in exchange for our lorries and spares.”

It sounded a pretty sensible idea. I had never seen any Italian drink other than vermouth displayed in shop
windows and yet thousands of men had come back talking of Strega and Marsala, Lacrimo Cristi and Frascati and Aurum. Housewives were bound to fall for it.

“Another thing,” Stuart said, “I’ve buttoned up our agreement. We’re now a private limited company. Our capital is 10,000 fully paid £1 shares—you own 5,000 and I own 5,000. The entire share capital is represented by one item, the ship. I’ve called ourselves Cunningham and McCrae Ltd. I’ll fix up the wine side of the business as soon as I get back to London. We’ll call it Fosdyk and Coy., Ltd.—that’s my pal’s name—and the shares will be in three equal lots.”

The next morning he was away again, taking Boyd with him, and Dugan and I got on with the refitting. Within a fortnight we’d nothing to do but paint and build in wardroom and mess fittings and bunks. When the painting was done and I had painted the name
Trevedra
on her sides and stern, I went down on to the sands at high tide and took her photo with a camera I had acquired. I wanted the picture for Sarah.

I wired Stuart that we were ready to sail when he gave the word and then had a final orgy of spending, chiefly on bridge equipment—an Aldis signalling lamp, a set of flags, a megaphone, glasses, and, most expensive item of all, radio equipment. The following day I called at the Post Office and found Stuart’s reply waiting for me. It read—“Arrange arrival morning twenty-seventh end coast road Littlestone dash Dungeness Ack.”

I acknowledged and then returned to the
Trevedra
. At the flood that afternoon we winched her off on the hook which we’d carried well out several days before. Then we slipped into the Docks and returned all the gear we’d borrowed. We fuelled and watered and then had one last night ashore. Slater had found me two sailors on leave who wanted a lift along the coast and with this temporary addition to our crew we sailed for Dungeness the next morning.

The sea was calm and we were off Dungeness light as the sun rose over the bows. The Bedfords were ready
waiting on the coast road just where it turns inland a few hundred yards short of the Pilot Inn. Through the glasses I saw Stuart coming down on to the beach waving to me and I ran straight in, dropping the hook about half-a-cable’s length from the shore. She beached with a grating crash. I dropped the bow door and we made fast with ground anchors.

I said good-bye to my temporary crew and within an hour we had four of the Bedfords, loaded to the canopy with crates of cigarettes, stowed and lashed. The fifth was full of spares and had to be backed-in, off-loaded and taken back to the farm for more. She did four trips before the barn was cleared. But at last we had her stowed and I got the bow anchor in and raised the door. We winched her out and when the hook was up I went up on to the bridge and headed the ship down Channel.

Boyd was at the wheel and Stuart joined me on the bridge. “Just been having a look round,” he said. “Nice job you’ve done.”

I didn’t say anything and nor did he after that. We just stood and smoked, watching the water slip past and listening to the rhythmic chug of the engines and the slap of the waves against the blunt bows. We were both of us feeling that life was very good. We had achieved something. We had a ship and a cargo. The weather was fair and we were outward bound. We were traders—and I thought back down the long line of British traders and felt a surge of satisfaction that I was one of them.

We got a holding chain made fast round the bow door and double-lashed the cargo and loose gear. I was taking no chances with the weather in the Bay of Biscay. By sundown the Isle of Wight had disappeared in the gathering dusk from the east and we were out of sight of land, heading for Ushant in a long Atlantic swell.

T
HE WEATHER
was fair and we made a steady eight knots. Dugan and Boyd split the engine-room duties and Stuart and I the watches and wheel duty. The Bay was placid and by the morning of the third day we were running down the coast of Portugal. It began to get hot.

That night there occurred something that had a bearing on what happened later. Darkness came out of a cloudless sky. Stuart and I were on the bridge, smoking and watching the stars. The sea was almost glassy and only a slight vibration and the sound of the engines told us that we were moving. The night air was warm with the promise of heat from the desert sands of Africa.

“We should pick up the light of Cape Vincent soon,” I said. I switched the light on in the covered chart recess and checked our position. According to my reckoning we were due to change course in another half-hour from south to south-east to make the Straits.

“There’s a ship dead ahead of us,” Stuart said.

I took my head out of the recess and gazed into the starlit night. At first I could see nothing. But as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness after the glare of the chart table light, I made out the dim shape of a small ship.

“Looks like a schooner,” Stuart added, passing the glasses across to me. “She’s no sails and she’s without lights.”

I took the glasses. It was a schooner all right, of the type that do much of the coastal trade round Spain and Italy. As I watched her a froth of white appeared at her stern. She had got her auxiliary going. Sails fluttered up clothing her bare masts and drawing fitfully in the
light breeze. She began to move across our bows as we bore down on her.

I edged the wheel up and the bows came round until we were heading straight for her again. “I am closing her to see why she is without lights,” I told Stuart.

He nodded, but made no comment. He was tapping his teeth with his pipe and gazing for’ard at the rapidly looming shape.

When we were about a cable’s-length away the schooner suddenly stopped her engine. Her sails dropped limply from her masts leaving them bare as they had been before. “Stop both,” I ordered the engine-room. In the sudden quiet the sound of the water creaming before the thrusting bows was very loud. I switched on the loud-hailer. “Ahoy, there!” I called. “What ship is that?”