Maddon's Rock (30 page)

“It’s the feed system to the oil burners,” he replied. “A’m having to take it all doon for a thorough clean. A’ve steam enough for the donkey-engines and the pumps—no more. The feed system of the main boilers is choked and until A’ve cleared it A’ canna fire ’em.”

There was nothing we could do about it. “Engines or not,” I said, “I’m taking her off on this morning’s tide. Well just have to hope that the anchors hold. Do you agree, Jenny?” She nodded. “You better come up and get some breakfast, Mac,” I said.

Breakfast finished we all went on deck, with the exception of Mac who returned to his boilers. We went aft and got the hawsers fixed to the capstan drums of the donkey engines. The port drum took the line that ran out to the reef, the starb’d drum the line to the anchor. “Do you think that anchor will hold?” I asked Zelinski.

He spread his hands out in a gesture of resignation.
“I have hope—that is all I can say. The bottom of the sea is rocky.”

It was past seven-thirty now. The lightened stem was lifting as each successive wave spilled under it. As it came down on the beach again, the
Trikkala
shivered through her whole length and that wretched grinding noise was audible above the din of the sea. I sent Bert and Zelinski for’ard. We had already fixed the bow hawsers to the donkey-engines. Their job was to pay off for’ard as Jenny and I on the after donkey-engines endeavoured to pull the
Trikkala
into the water.

When they were all set Bert waved to me. Jenny and I took up the slack. The powerful clatter of the engines filled us with a wild sense of hope. If only we could pull her off. If only her hull was not damaged. If only the anchors held when we were clear of the beach and afloat. If only—if only—if only——

“Okay?” I called to Jenny.

She nodded.

I signalled to Bert that we were about to commence operations. Then Jenny and I waited tense for the next big wave. We let three waves dissipate their strength, lifting the stern and crashing it down on to the beach. Then Jenny pointed. I had already seen it, a great shaggy-headed comber, that was piling in a good deal higher than the others. Its crest seethed white. It curled. Then, as it dashed itself in a great burst of spray against the stern, I nodded to Jenny. The pneumatic drill chatter of the donkey-engines drowned the sound of the wave thundering on the beach. I felt the stern lifted high. I watched my hawser stretching in a taut line out to the rocks that seethed and boiled with foam. Would the line break or would the
Trikkala
move? The capstan drum revolved slowly. The hawser tightened, stretched to a thin line. Something had to give. The engine laboured. My heart was in my mouth. Something had to give—and I thought that thin steel strand would never stand the strain.

Then suddenly the drum was revolving faster, easier. The stern of the
Trikkala
hung on the full flood of the
wave. I stole a quick glance at the other drum. It was revolving faster, like my own. The
Trikkala
was coming off. I watched the ebb of the wave seeth down the beach. I raised my hand and we stopped both our engines. How far we had dragged the ship it was impossible to say. There was nothing by which we could judge our progress. But my guess was that we had wound in at least thirty feet of cable on that wave, some of which was stretch.

We waited, watching for the next big wave. Even the smaller waves were lifting the stern of the
Trikkala
easily now so that at moments I could swear we were afloat. And each time we crashed down on the beach with that wretched grinding noise. I didn’t dare wait long. For all I knew we might be bumping on rock now. A reasonably big wave came rolling in. I nodded to Jenny. The engines clattered as the three-inch gun at the stern lifted again the background of foam-flooded reefs. Again the hawsers tightened to thin lines. The drums began to wind them in. The
Trikkala
was moving again, floating on the flood of the wave.

Suddenly my engine raced. My line whipped out of the water and came sailing towards us, snaking high above the ship. Then it fell with a crash against the funnel, trailing its broken end in the water. It had parted at the reef to which it was attached. Either it had rusted or it had chafed against the sharp edge of a rock.

Whilst it was still snaking through the air, I glanced quickly at Jenny’s line. It was very taut as it bore the full drag of the ship. But the engine was not labouring and the line was coming in steadily on the drum. I signalled to her to keep going. The
Trikkala
was coming astern quite easily now.

The wave ebbed. I signalled her to stop. But this time the stern did not sink with a grinding thud on to the bottom, but remained uneasily afloat. Faintly I heard Bert call. I went to the rail and looked for’ard. “No more slack here,” he shouted through cupped hands and then pointed to the hawsers which were stretched taut from the bows to the black cliffs.

“Let ’em go,” I yelled back and made a cutting signal with my hand. He acknowledged with a wave of his arm. A moment later I saw them fall into the water.

On the very next wave Jenny started her engine again. At first I thought she wasn’t going to make it. The engine laboured, the line became tauter and tauter till it seemed as though it must part. And then at the full flood of the wave, the ship gave a little wriggle and the engine ceased labouring. A moment later and the hawser went almost slack.

We were afloat.

We took her out stern first on that single hawser till we were almost over the anchor. Then, before we dragged the anchor on too short a hawser, we let go the main anchor for’ard.

Everything depended now on whether the anchors held. As she had come off the
Trikkala
had swung a bit so that she was not quite stem-on to the wind. We let her be blown a little shoreward so that there was some length to the after anchor chain and then hoped for the best. Wind and waves were both thrusting her shoreward. It was a heavy weight that the anchors had to hold. However, silent and a little scared, we got the pumps working and then settled down to the task of trimming the ship. Our work of the previous night had so lightened the after-hold that she was floating with her stern cocked up in the air. And so, whilst Mac struggled with the engines, the four of us got to work clearing some of the cargo out of Numbers One and Two holds.

One thing, it kept our minds occupied. The hours sped by and gradually we realised that not only were the anchors holding, but that the pumps, working flat out, were able to take care of what water we were making. By dusk the wind had swung right round into the west again so that we were once more under the lee of the island. The sea dropped quickly and then there was no longer any danger of our being blown on to the shore.

We finally got the ship trimmed at three o’clock in the morning. In the galley, with the cook’s cat purring round our legs, we had a little celebration party on tea
and rum. We were all practically asleep on our feet. Mac came up from the engine-room and reported that he’d cleared the fuel system and as soon as he’d got it back he’d fire the boilers. There was now no doubt of our safety. Peace of mind flooded through my aching limbs. And with that and the warmth of the fire I fell asleep where I sat in front of the galley stove.

I woke to find Jenny shaking me by the arm. I felt cold and wretched. Bert was curled up on the cook’s bunk, snoring loudly. Zelinski was frying soya sausages. “It’s getting light,” Jenny said. I rubbed my eyes and stretched.

After a shave and breakfast I felt better. Mac took us down to the engine-room. The place was hot and full of life. One of the main boilers was fired. The flames glowed red through the steel door. The pressure gauge was beginning to register. “A’ll have the port engine working before midday,” he said, grinning. I think that was the first and the last time I ever saw Mac grin. He looked like a schoolboy showing off a new toy.

Up on deck smoke rolled out of the funnel in a black cloud. “I think I feel a bit light-headed,” Jenny said. We were standing on the bridge and I was going over in my mind how best to handle the ship. Neither Jenny nor I really knew anything about it. Mac was the only one of us who had sailed in steam and he only understood the engines.

“With luck we’ll be back in a fortnight,” I said, and kissed her.

She laughed and pressed my hand. “The luck’s been with us so far,” she said. “Except for the
Eilean Mor.
”

We went into the wheelhouse then and began checking equipment, testing voice pipes, examining charts. We must have been there the better part of an hour, talking and planning and going over things, when I heard Bert shouting. As I stepped out of the wheelhouse on to the bridge, his feet clattered up the bridge ladder. “Jim!” he shouted. “Jim!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked as he stumbled on to the bridge.

“Look?” he panted, pointing aft beyond the
Trikkala
to the line of the reefs.

He pointed straight towards the gap. A wave had just crashed against the pinnacle on the south side of the entrance. It burst in a cloud of spray and then spilled in a flood of surf across the gap. Everything looked the same. The line of the reefs, the white boil of the surf, the leaden, scud-filled sky. “What is it?” I shouted in his ear.

“There—in the gap,” he shouted back.

The water tossed upwards as backwash hit the oncoming surge of water. Then, as the sea settled, I saw it. Out beyond the gap, half hidden in a curtain of spray, was the squat funnel of a small ship. Next instant I could see her bows, coming up black with the sea running white off her snout like a submarine surfacing. Those bows were headed for the gap.

I felt my nerves tense as I strained my eyes to see her enter the gap. Jenny came out and caught my arm. “What is it, Jim?”

I pointed and I felt her start as the black funnel showed for an instant in the foam. The vessel was in the gap now. A wave broke. The funnel heeled right over. The ship was lost in a great smother of foam. Then she rose up, just as the
Eilean Mor
had done. For an instant we could see her clearly—a tug—then she was down again, smothered in surf and spray. A moment later she spilled through the gap and was in calmer waters not half a mile away from us.

It was Halsey’s tug. No doubt of that. Unless there were two Admiralty tugs headed for Maddon’s Rock, which was hardly likely.

“Is it—is it Halsey?” Jenny shouted.

“Yes, that’s ’im all right, Miss,” Bert answered her. “That’s Cap’n blarsted ’Alsey orl right.”

“Bert, get the rifles—quick,” I ordered. “And the ammo.”

In a matter of minutes we were at what was for us Action Stations. We left Mac with the engines. If only we could get steam up before they boarded us we might
still have a chance. Jenny and I with a rifle apiece were on the bridge which had armour protected sides. Bert and Zelinski were aft. We all had revolvers as well as rifles.

The tug headed straight for us. Above the din of the reefs I distinctly heard their engine-room telegraph ring as they cut to slow ahead. Through the glasses I could see Halsey standing on the bridge. His black beard was white with salt. He had no cap on and his long dark hair hung about his face. Beside him stood the lean, long figure of Hendrik.

“Will he try and board us right away?” Jenny asked.

“No,” I said. “He’ll hail us first. He won’t know who’s on board. He’ll want to know that before he starts anything.”

Jenny suddenly gripped my hand. “Jim, I’ve suddenly remembered something,” she said. “Something Bert said. Do you remember, he said he thought that when Halsey had got the silver, he’d abandon all the crew, except the old gang. Probably Rankin, too. They must have others on board besides the five who escaped from the
Trikkala
. If we could work on their fears.” She scrambled to her feet. “There’s a megaphone in the wheelhouse,” she said.

It was a chance. It might make them hold off for a bit. We had to have time. I seized one of the engine-room voice-pipes and blew down it. “Mac,” I called.

“Is that you, Mr. Vardy?” came his voice, faint and distant through the tube.

“Yes,” I replied. “Halsey has arrived. What’s the earliest moment we can get that port engine going?”

“Weel, A’ canna promise it for anither hour.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m on the bridge. Let me know the instant we can use it.”

Another hour! Two hours later and we should have given Halsey the slip. Our luck seemed to have deserted us utterly. Jenny returned and handed me the megaphone. The tug’s screws churned as she went astern. She had fetched up within a long stone’s throw of the
Trikkala
. “Ahoy there,
Trikkala
!” came Halsey’s voice over the
loud-hailer. “Ahoy! Who is on board?” And then again, “Ahoy,
Trikkala
! This is the salvage tug,
Tempest
, sailing under orders of the British Admiralty.”

He was lying, of course. But it showed that it had not occurred to him that Bert and I had reached the
Trikkala
. “Ahoy,
Trikkala
!” he called again. “Is any one on board?”

I put the megaphone to my lips then and, keeping well under cover, hailed the tug: “Ahoy there,
Tempest
! Calling the crew of the salvage tug
Tempest. Trikkala
calling the crew of the
Tempest.
This is a non-commissioned officer of the British Army speaking to you.” I could see the crew lining the bulwarks. “I hold the
Trikkala
and the bullion on board in the King’s name. Further, I order you to deliver to me the person of Captain Halsey, charged with the murder of twenty-three members of the crew of the
Trikkala.
Implicated with him are Hendrik, first officer of the
Trikkala
, and two seamen, Jukes and Evans. These persons will be delivered on board this ship in irons. I warn you that if you commit an act of piracy under the orders of the prisoner, Halsey, it is possible that you will suffer the same fate as the crew of the
Trikkala.
Halsey is a murderer and——”

I stopped then for the tug’s siren was blowing, drowning my voice. The screws frothed at her stern and she swung away in a wide arc, her siren still blowing a feather of white steam at her funnel.