Maddon's Rock (26 page)

It took us nearly an hour to beat back to the gap. We didn’t talk much. I think we were all of us over-awed by the decision that had to be made. The wind was rising now and the glass was as low as I’d ever seen it. But as yet the seas were not much bigger than they had been during the past few days, especially in the lee of the island. The waves had no weight behind them—yet. There was none of the heavy deep-sea swell of the kind that might run in this area for weeks at a time after bad weather. The decision that lay before us was whether or not to go straight in and risk being overwhelmed in the mad tumble of surf that smothered the gap.

AT LENGTH WE
were abreast of the gap. Jenny was at the wheel. She had edged the
Eilean Mor
in close so that we could have a good look at it. It was barely a quarter of a mile away on our starboard beam. There was no doubt about it being a gap. A pinnacle of rock stood on a ledge to the left of the entrance. It was like a lighthouse, but bigger, more solid. It was against this that the waves broke. Each wave seemed to pile up to a great height on a submerged ledge, crash against this pinnacle and then fling itself in a great wall of foam across the gap which was a good fifty yards wide. On the farther side the wave seemed to re-form, pile up and break against a solid mass of broken, jagged rocks. From these it would fall back and its backwash would meet the next wave spilling across the gap and the sea would toss itself upward in a giant leap as though it were trying to reach up to the low-hanging cloud. It was a most frightening patch of water. Just occasionally there would be a momentary lull. It was then that we could see that it was a clear gap. And beyond, where the
Trikkala
lay beached, the water seemed reasonably quiet, protected as it was on all sides by the reefs.

“Do you think there’s any chance of getting through there?” Jenny asked me. We were alone in the wheelhouse.

“God knows,” I replied. “All I know is that Halsey took the
Trikkala
in through that gap and there she lies, apparently intact. And he came out again in an open boat with five men in it.”

“What shall we do then?” Jenny asked. “We’ve got to decide now. The wind’s getting up. It’ll be dark soon. We’ve got to make up our minds.” Her voice was uncertain. She was staring at the gap. The
Eilean Mor
lurched violently. Jenny turned to me as she tightened her grip on the wheel. “Shall we stand away and run for it? Or shall we chance it and go in?”

I didn’t know what to answer. There lay the
Trikkala
within our grasp. And yet the thought of Jenny being flung into the boiling surf if the
Eilean Mor
broke up going through the gap scared me. “You’re the skipper, Jenny,” I said at length.

“Oh, be reasonable, Jim,” she cried. “I can’t decide a thing like this on my own. I’ve no idea what the reef looks like in fine weather. We’ve had it fair for the better part of two weeks now. This may be calm for Maddon’s Rock. If we wait till the storm has blown itself out, it may be weeks before we can approach as near the island at this. And Halsey would be here by then. You’ve got to help me decide. What would you do if you and Bert and Mac were here on your own.”

“I don’t know,” I said. I hadn’t considered it. “You must make the decision yourself. You’re the skipper and it’s your boat. The decision has to be yours.”

She was looking straight at me, her grey eyes very steady, her brow slightly puckered. The salt glistened in her hair. “You’d go right in, wouldn’t you?” she said.

I looked towards the gap. A great comber piled up against the ledge and broke in a seething mass of foam across the entrance, met the backwash of the previous wave and tossed itself in the air like a giant sea horse tossing its mane. “I don’t know,” I said.

I felt her watching me. Then suddenly in a tight little voice she said, “Tell Mac to start the engine up.”

“You’re going to go in?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was strained, but I knew by the tone of it that she had made her mind up.

“You aren’t trying to be pig-headed, are you?” I asked. “You do realise what it’s going to be like? It’ll be worse than any sea you’ve ever been through—and the odds are against our making it.”

“Tell Mac to get the engine going,” she repeated.

I did not try to dissuade her further. “When the engine is going, get the sails stowed,” she added, as I opened the door of the wheelhouse. “And have them put their life jackets on. I’ve got mine here. And well need to trail a sea anchor astern to hold her steady in that surf.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a tripping line and veer out about four fathoms. It’ll need to be a pretty short tow with all those rocks.”

Mac got the engine started. The steady throb of the decks was a comfortable feeling. Bert and I dropped the sails and Jenny swung the
Eilean Mors
bows towards the gap. We stowed the sails and battened everything down. We got the sea anchor over the stern. Then I went back to the wheelhouse. Straight ahead of us through the windshield was the gap. It was now about two hundred yards ahead of us. From that distance the waves looked mountains high as they piled against the pinnacle on the left. Their shaggy heads would suddenly rear up, curl over and then dash themselves against the great square slab of granite that formed the pedestal. The sound of it was like a clap of thunder above the general tide of battle that stormed along the length of the reefs.

Jenny stood slim and erect against the wheel. Her eyes looked straight ahead. A sudden longing welled up in me. It was all mixed up with a feeling of pride and tenderness. She looked such a slip of a girl. But she faced that ghastly surge of water without a tremor. I went up behind her and took her by the elbows. “Jenny,” I said, “if we don’t—make it, I’d like you—I’d like you to know—I love you.”

“Jim!” That was all she said. I could barely hear it above the thunder of the surf. She didn’t turn her head.

“Does that mean you—love me?” I asked.

“Of course, darling.” She leaned her head back so that our cheeks touched. “Why do you think I’m here?” She was half-laughing, half-crying. Then she straightened up and became practical. “Have Mac come out of the engine-room,” she said. “I don’t want him
trapped down there—for all we know we may turn turtle. It looks frightful.” I felt her shudder. I let go of her elbows then and called to Mac. “Tell him to leave the engine running at full ahead,” she called out to me.

Mac came up from below and I gave him the tripping line of the drogue. I called Bert into the wheelhouse too. There was at any rate some protection here. Then I went back to the wheel. It would need two to hold her running through that smother.

“Gawd!” Bert exclaimed as he came in and shut the door. “You ain’t goin’ through that, are you, Miss Jenny? You can’t see nuffink beyond that surf—there may be a ’ole ’eap o’ rocks there.”

“We’ve been all along the reefs and back,” I told him. “That’s the gap all right. And if the
Trikkala
could go through without hitting any rocks, then a boat this size can.” We were very near now. The thunder of the waves breaking was almost drowned in the constant seething hiss of that monstrous surf. “Ever seen anything like this before?” I called out to Mac.

“A’ve seen as bad,” he replied sourly. “But a didna go through it—not in a wee boat like this. Ye’ll no do me engine any gude, Miss Jenny.”

“I don’t care a damn about your engine, Mac,” Jenny shouted, “so long as the
Eilean Mor
doesn’t fall apart when she hits those breakers.” Her voice bounded a bit wild. I glanced round the wheelhouse. We all had our life jackets on. Our faces looked pale and strained.

“You’ve got that tripping line, have you, Mac?” Jenny asked. “Well let it out as soon as we begin to swing in the surf. We’ll need the weight of that sea anchor when we get into it.” I don’t think Mac needed any telling. The line was gripped in his gnarled hands and his eyes were creased into a thousand wrinkles as he gazed steadily ahead.

The light was pale and grey. Great sheets of spray were flung against the windshield so that it ran with water. With the engine flat out the
Eilean Mor
was making about seven knots and driving straight for the
centre of the gap. The rocks on either side of the entrance were closing in on us. A great spout of water shot into the air some twenty yards ahead of us. It subsided and in a moment of slack I had a clear view of the
Trikkala
lying red and rusty between the smooth rock shoulders of the island.

The
Eilean Mor
suddenly caught the backwash of a wave. For a moment she seemed to slide backwards in a crazy mill-race of surf. Then she was driving forward again straight into the gap. Running on her engine at full speed Jenny could not pick her moment for going in. Not that it mattered. There was no chance of escaping that raging surf. “Hold tight,” Jenny suddenly called. “Here we go.” I gripped the wheel, one of my hands over hers. The
Eilean Mor
was lifted up and driven forward at a great rate on the seething crest of a wave.

I glanced to the left. The pinnacle of rock towered above us like a colossus. Its great black pedestal was exposed an instant in the trough of a wave, water cascading from it. The wave that was carrying us forward was piling up on the pedestal, curling, crashing against the rock. We dropped down the back of the wave, our bows pointing to the leaden sky. A great wall of surf was thundering across our bows. The wheel jerked under my hand. The bows swung. We lay in the trough of the wave almost broadside on in the gap.

Jenny spun the wheel. Slowly the
Eilean Mor
began to come round, the sea anchor dragging at her stern. She was shying like a frightened mare. “Look a’t!” Bert screamed. “Right be’ind yer.”

I turned my head. We were inside the entrance now, right in the path of the spilling surf. And beyond the granite base of that pinnacle a wave was piling up. Mountains high it seemed to rise. Water streamed from its broken crest like white hair in the wind. It was yellow with foam. The top curled. Then it toppled forward. It seemed it must crush our little boat. But the rock pedestal was between us. It hit the rock with a growling crash like thunder. It split into a sheet of foam and came
at us like an avalanche. The noise of it drowned our cries as it hit the
Eilean Mor.
The glass windshield smashed in like the shell of an egg. The sea poured white into the wheelhouse. The ship heeled, rolled over, was utterly buried under the weight of water. I could not see. I could not breathe. I felt myself drowning. There was a terrific weight on my chest. I thought my arms would break as I clung desperately to the wheel. We were being flung forward at a terrible rate as though plunging down a giant fall.

Then the
Eilean Mor
righted herself with a jerk that shook her to the keel. She was flung skywards. The water poured off her. It drained from the wheelhouse, dragging at my legs. Through the torn glass of the windshield I seemed poised for an instant high above the yellow froth of the sea. The screw raced as it was lifted clear of the water. Then we dropped back with a crash into the sea.

By the grace of God our bows were still headed towards the
Trikkala
. I felt the screw begin to drive her forward again. The sea anchor tow had parted. There was nothing to hold her. The wheel bucked in my hand, but I held her on her course. Out of the tail of my eye I saw the next wave pile up beyond the pinnacle. The surf roared down on us. Again we were buried deep in a giant race. But this time the
Eilean Mor
did not heel so far. I felt her rushing forward at a great rate. Gradually the foam slackened, the water drained off her. Ahead the water was comparatively calm. We were through. That second wave had spilled us right through the gap as though the ship were a surf board.

“Jenny—we’re through,” I cried.

She was lying on the floor, her hair damp across her face. Bert was sprawled across her legs, an ugly cut down the side of his head. Only Mac was still standing. “The engine-room, Mac,” I shouted. “Cut her down to slow.”

“Aye, aye,” he said.

Jenny stirred. Then she opened her eyes and stared wildly up at me. Her mouth opened wide. I think she
was going to scream. But she suddenly got a grip of herself. She swallowed, then said, “Are we—are we through, Jim?”

“Yes,” I said. “We’re through. Are you all right?”

She put her hand up to her head. “Yes—yes, I think so. I must have hit up against something when I fell.” She sat up, pushing the dank hair out of her eyes. Bert groaned. “What about you, Bert?” she asked.

“It’s me arm,” he groaned. “Help! Feels like it’s broke. It’s all right, Miss,” he added as she knelt beside him. “I’ll be all right.”

The engine slowed. The wind cut at my face through the open windshield. Huge flakes of scud floated through the air like scraps of paper in a gale. The water was chopped up, but here under the lee of the island the waves had no strength in them. I ran slowly in to the beach. Close under the rusty stern of the
Trikkala
, which lay partly in the water, I ordered Mac to cut the engine. Then I scrambled for’ard and let go the anchor.

The
Eilean Mor
was a shambles. She looked as though she’d been hit by a typhoon. But her masts still stood. The dinghy lashed aft appeared to be intact. The only serious damage seemed to be the wheelhouse, which was stove in on the port side and all its windows smashed. Blood was dripping from my arm where I had been cut by the glass. I went aft again. “How’s the arm, Bert?” I asked. He was standing up, leaning against the broken chart table. “Can you move it?”

“Yes—it’s all right, guvner. Caught it on the beastly binnacle, that’s all.” He suddenly grinned. “Blimey, that was a bit of a rough sea, weren’t it?”

Jenny was smiling. She seemed all right. “I think we’ve been pretty lucky,” she said. She suddenly leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were warm and soft, and very salt. “You’re the best sailor I’ve ever met, darling,” she said. And then added quickly, “Now let’s go below and see if we can find some dry clothes. And I’ll bind that cut of yours up. I think we all want a little patching up.” I saw then that there was blood on her neck.