Scend of the Sea

CHAPTER SEVEN

I fought, hour by hour, for the life of the ship through the long night that followed. What I did not know was that the news of the storm I was challenging had brought as great a storm, emotionally, to Tafline in Cape Town. Her storm, like mine, held its secrets: when the shock-waves of her long night were over, she admitted consciously that she was in love.

It began, she told me afterwards, like mine, with the Buccaneer. She heard the radio announcement that a Buccaneer had gone missing on a training flight. Aboard Walvis Bay, all radios were dead. The main set was out because the radio hut had been smashed. All portable sets had been flooded and their batteries swamped. Until daylight it was impossible to find new ones in the 'tween-decks shambles.

She had frozen at the Buccaneer announcement. She saw intuitively behind the standard, cautious, well-used phrases: she guessed it was Alistair.

A second radio bulletin later increased her own tumult. It described the severity of the great storm I was riding out, hanging between life and death at the end of a wood-and-canvas sea anchor and a drum of oil. We had knocked holes in the drum before getting it overboard to let the oil seep out and try and soften the waves from swamping the labouring weather ship. Nonetheless, all night they broke through the shattered bridge; they cascaded through the hole in the deck; again and again we replaced the torn canvas. Our hands were numbed by the cold. Our nails were ripped. Our flesh bled. The tarpaulin reared, whipped, lashed, like a maniac. Strong men wept and cursed the south-west wind. Again and again it tore away their puny efforts to save themselves.

Then the Weather Bureau stated: 'Radio contact with the weather ship Walvis Bay in the storm area has been lost.'

At that, she had known the answer: Waratah!

She had made a long-distance telephone call from Cape Town to the Port Met. Office in Durban. Where, she asked, had I last been heard of? The weatherman told her more than he normally would a stranger. There must have been something in what she said which made him guess how close, how newly close, she was to me. He did not tell her, though, that the Air Force had confided that they held out little hope for the Buccaneer. The search would be their main concern now.

It would have comforted me, that night, to have known of her anxiety, but I did not. All I had was the decision-tapping attrition of icy gale and sea on a mind growing more and more numb as the hammer-blows followed one another unabated. When a pump burned out in some desperate hour of the night, I thought the storm had won. Scannel, disregarding the burns which had turned his upper chest into a Martian red surface of craters and blisters, calmly stripped it down with the unruffled patience and steady hand of a Grand Prix mechanic who sees the race roar past while his driver loses precious race-winning seconds. The pump drew again, and once again we sucked out the life-inhibiting load of water.

The first stunning wave had pitched the steel cabinet with all my Waratah material across the cabin on to my bunk. Hurrying below to visit the injured Feldman, I stopped at the sight of it. Like the peace at the heart of every cyclone, the outside roar ceased to exist for me, and telepathically she was there in that moment of exclusion. I did not try and move the cabinet; maybe it was safer on the bunk than on the floor, where the water from the bridge still sloshed past on its way to the depths of the ship. Beyond a wetting, the documents were in reasonable shape — another chapter of the same story was being written at that moment up above in wind, wave and water 1 Likewise, my marked chart escaped only with a drenching.

Automatically, I looked at the photograph of the Waratah. Something had been hurled across the cabin; its glass was cracked clean across.

The ship's wind direction and velocity gauge on the top deck had been wrecked; the cabin repeater pointed statically, ironically — south-west. The books she had taken from my shelf lay in a pulpy mess on the floor.

Where, Tafline had asked, had contact with me been lost?

Bashee, the weatherman replied. South of the Bashee.

There had been no need for her to hear any more then. She had thanked him mechanically, put down the telephone, and gone over to the window of her flat. The Mouille Point lighthouse nearby always used to flick an arrow of light against the flat wall, and she screwed up her eyes against it now. She loved the lighthouse as her Welsh grandfather had loved the one he had tended. Tafline — the Welsh ancestry had given her that soft name, and somehow the sixth sense of the Celt enabled her to identify herself so closely with the mysterious fate of the old ship. She loved the sea too, a derivative from Viking blood on her father's side. The Olens had come from Sweden to South Africa sixty years before and had pioneered a Scandinavian settlement in the Transvaal. It was this seafaring streak which let her understand, with almost Arab fatalism, the ocean drama being played out of which I was part. Below her window in the light winter rain car headlights made a home-going procession. She watched. She did not weep; she did not do any more than make that one telephone call. The cinemagoers, the diners, the dancers, would sleep tonight, but she would not.

There was a last news bulletin that night. The Buccaneer, Walvis Bay and the great storm took top place. Growing concern, said the radio, was being felt for the safety of the ship and the jet. Despite repeated attempts to make contact with the weather ship, there had been no response.

Feldman lay half-conscious in the ward-room, mumbling, only half-aware of his surroundings. We strapped him to the bunk to protect his damaged side from the ship's lurches. He was our only operator, even if we had had a spare, the radio hut was gone.

Finally, she heard the radio appeal to all ships to be on the alert for traces of the weather ship and to go to her assistance if spotted. The storm warning and order was repeated. Three Navy frigates had been ordered to the Pondoland coast, and Maritime Command was to fly rescue sorties at daylight, if the storm would permit.

Traces? she asked herself in agony. Had there been some further information behind the news bulletins which already presupposed the loss of the weather ship? For a moment she was tempted to telephone again, but she resisted it. She made some tea, put out the light, and let the recurring lighthouse flash be a pulsating, calculable goad across her face all through the long night. When it became colder, she fetched a rug and put it over her knees and pulled on the thick yachting sweater with its strange shoulder design, the one she had worn when she came aboard my ship in harbour. She remembered that too.

She sat and waited, because in her heart she knew, like the other Fairlie women who had waited, the one for the Waratah and the other for the airliner, that the man she loved was not dead.

When the light came, the lighthouse's scalpel no longer cut into her eyes, and she slept in the chair.

When the light came to my eyes, a bright imperative flash cut across the waves under the grey cloud scud. I could not see the signalling ship itself in that wild sea, but that quick, professional clatter of the shutter told me it was a warship. What ship is that?

'Get me a torch-a lamp — anything that signals,' I ordered Smit.

He went below to look. The warship was coming up fast; I began to make out her guns and radar through the water she was throwing over herself. For a moment the sailor in me paused to admire the splendid sight, but my pleasure was rapidly overshadowed by the fact that the warship represented, in the most tangible form, the authority I had defied. A string of explanations raced through my mind, for daylight had shown what a beating the staunch little whaler had taken. The flimsy radiosonde hut had been flattened to the deck; its companion, the radio hut, was still standing drunkenly, one side crumpled and askew. The fragments of the radar antenna, the high direction-finder forward of the funnel and the small stern mast were wrapped together in an inextricable embrace with stanchions and bridge plating which had been torn away. The catwalk for'ard to the bows from the starboard side of the bridge to the harpoon gun platform was bent to the deck in an untidy V. Two heavy steel supports with which it was normally attached to the starboard rail had been snapped off. We had managed to save the stocky foremast from going overboard by trapping the stays, but nevertheless it lay over drunkenly too; the metal outriggers which took the masthead lights seemed somehow to have woven themselves into the ratlines. Normally the harpoon gun was positioned between the flares of the bow, but I had had it removed in Durban, so that the break which it would have afforded to the head seas was missing. As a. result, a solid body of water had smashed on to the foredeck, ripping from its foundations the big winch, which had been thrown upwards through the centre of the bridge windows.

I had had no damage report from the two technicians in charge of the satellite observation apparatus, but Smit had told me enough to know that it would never work again. The hole in the deck had been our biggest anxiety during the night, but with daylight it was evident that the worst of the storm had spent itself, although the wind velocity was still, I estimated, Force 6 or 7, which meant it was blowing between 30 and 40 miles an hour. Far less water was coming aboard, and the pumps were managing. Walvis Bay, was, however, a sorry sight, and I would have to answer for it.

The sharp flicker of light became more imperative.

'Identify yourself, please. Identify yourself. Why do you not reply to my radio?

The warship-I could see now that she was a frigate — slowed and started to circle. It was not by coincidence that she was at sea, I told myself grimly. She was searching — for Walvis Bay.

Smit returned. He had unearthed a battered old signal lamp, but it worked.

'Walvis Bay,' I spelt out to the warship.

Again the quick staccato of light. 'Answer my radio signals — immediately.'

Smit glanced sideways at me. This was certainly not the lost sheep and joyful shepherd approach.

'Cannot,' I replied. 'Radio washed away. Operator injured. Requires medical attention.'

The frigate edged closer. Her captain must be taking a long look at what I had done to the weather ship. I felt naked under the silent scrutiny. Through my binoculars I read her name — SAS Natal.

Here it came. 'What are you doing in the prohibited area?'

'Trying to keep afloat,' I replied flippantly.

There was no humour in the Navy this morning, however. I could imagine what a shaking that lean hull had taken during the night with her captain under orders to look for me 'at best possible speed'.

The light said: 'Repeat, what are you doing in the prohibited area? Did you not receive the storm warning?'

There was no use denying it; Feldman would see to that.

'I received the storm warning. My ship was damaged shortly afterwards. One prop, is out. Unable to steam.'

There was another long, uncomfortable pause.

'Base informed that you are safe,' resumed the light. 'A Shackleton from Maritime Command will be over soon as stand-by. Come aboard and report personally.'

A tiny pulse of hope beat for a moment through my tiredness. Maybe they were out looking only for Walvis Bay, not for Alistair.

'Regret cannot comply,' I replied. 'Cannot leave my ship.’ 'Come aboard! That is an order, not a request!'

Smit had found a working portable radio. I, too, heard the announcement. It brought confirmation of the news I had dreaded all night: Alistair had indeed crashed. I was the one who had seen him go in; I must persuade the Navy that Walvis Bay was in no urgent need, that it was imperative that I should take the frigate to where the Buccaneer had crashed.

'Have you any casualties?' asked the warship. ‘I intend to sling a breeches buoy to you. A boat's too risky. Stand by. Skipper to precede casualties.'

I picked up the voice-pipe to Scannel. 'Nick, ‘I’m transferring you to the frigate for those burns. Stand by, will you?'

There was a moment's silence, then the engineer's voice came through. 'Boy, that will be the day! Do you think I'm leaving the ship stuck like this?'

'Listen, Nick …" I began, but all I got was a derisive laugh and the instrument went dead.

I signalled the warship. 'My first officer has a badly crushed arm and shoulder. What about using a helicopter for him?'

'No question of it in this weather,' answered the light. 'I'm coming close. I'll fire a line across you …'

I was given instructions how to secure the springs of the lifeline and told to keep the whaler at a fixed distance during Feldman's transfer-and my own. I hoped my exhausted crew could manage. Jubela was dead on his feet, and it was mainly upon his helmsmanship that success would depend. Smit went to help Feldman on deck.

The frigate drew in. The rise and fall of a solid object gave the seas a new and frightening proportion. The other vessel seemed to be lifting fully thirty feet above us and then falling deep below in the troughs. She was being beautifully handled.

'I'll come round into the wind,' said the warship. 'This will call for your full co-operation. Can you get rid of that sea anchor and make some speed?'

‘I can manage a couple of knots on one screw.'

'Ready, then?'

'Ready.'

The frigate circled our stern and came up on the starboard side in order to give me a lee against the waves and the gale.

I did not hear the crack as she fired a line. Jubela compensated, but the shot went wide.

The frigate bucked wildly as she lost way, trying to accommodate herself to our limping pace. Again she fired the lifeline. This time it snaked across our deck and we made it fast. While we hauled in the main cable and secured it, Natal gave another magnificent demonstration of seamanship, holding a course parallel to ours at walking pace almost.

I climbed into the canvas 'breeches' as I had been told, not raising my arms but letting myself hang limp to be hauled across. Feldman, his face grey with pain, fear, and I think resentment at not going first, eyed me silently. I jammed my battered cap, whose crown had taken a beating from the lashing tarpaulin when it had blown off my head once, tight over my eyes.

I swung free of the weather ship. I had gone perhaps a quarter of the distance when suddenly the line sagged. I saw the white-topped sea below me rush up to meet my feet. The sickening drop brought back acutely Walvis Bay's moment of life-and-death in the great wave. It was Walvis Bay now that edged away slightly, bringing the line taut, but not too taut; I blessed Jubela's judgment. As I reached the warship's side, a big four-engined Shackleton came over low, circling, watching.

I was hauled on to the deck.

Commander Lee-Aston did not waste any time. When I saw his stubble-blackened face and red-rimmed eyes, I wondered how my own must look. A patina of dried salt lay across his shoulders like snow. His oilskin crackled like mine.

He nodded briefly and led me below. What was obviously a conference cabin had been cleared, as if for action. Piles of chairs lay lashed against the steel walls, with carpets, pictures, and smaller furniture.

Lee-Aston sat himself on the corner of the long table. 'We must talk fast,' he said. 'That line between the ships is damn dicey. Where's your log?'

'You didn't ask..'

'When were you damaged?'

'Shortly after seven.'

'Where — position?'

'Not a clue.'

'I see. But you were in the prohibited area.'

'You make it sound like the diamond fields.’

Lee-Aston's voice was tired, edged. 'Just answer my questions. I've had a rough night. The guts have been shaken out of my ship and the whole forepeak section is badly strained.'

'I. .' I checked what I wanted to say about Walvis Bay's ordeal. The less said, the better.

'What time did you receive the Navy's get-out signal?'

'A little after six.'

'Yet — an hour later, when you could have been safe in deep water you were, where? How far? Why?'

My mind balked There were too many things I could not answer.

'All this questioning — I don't know whether it's your function or not. I certainly will get all I can face from a lot of other people when I get ashore …'

Lee-Aston looked at me bleakly. He didn't drop his probing, judicial air. 'I think we should get the division of authority clear before I proceed. Your Weather Bureau is without law enforcement authority. At sea, they call in the Navy. Within territorial waters, the Navy's word is law. So I call upon you to explain-and it seems there is a considerable amount to explain. The Navy's authority ends ashore. Along the coastline, the Railways and Harbours Police, not the police, exercise authority. If something like wreckage is involved, I hand over to them. .'

'Listen,' I said, trying to overcome his cool self-assurance, 'at the moment both of us are sailors, up against the sea. We can discuss later whose authority I fall under. But now-if you will cast off that lifeline to my weather ship, I'll take you to where the Buccaneer went in.'

'You'll-what?'

‘I saw the Buccaneer go down, and I know just about where it was. Young Smit can take charge of Walvis Bay. She won't sink — not yet, anyway. Let's get back to the crash area — fast.'

Les-Aston slid off the edge of the table and simply stared at me. There was a small tic in one of his red-rimmed eyes.

'I saw the Buccaneer go in,' I repeated. Careful, I told myself, don't implicate Alistair. Low-flying is strictly against orders. Shooting up shipping is a cardinal offence. Lee-Aston wasn't Feldman. He wouldn't swallow that datum-point yarn.

Lee-Aston was incredulous. 'It is nearly twelve hours since the first signal came in that the Buccaneer was missing! You say you saw him crash, and you made no attempt to go to his rescue or report it? What did you think it was — a dolphin?' ‘No,' I said. ‘It was my brother.'

Lee-Aston broke the ensuing silence. It was the only time he became animated during the interview. 'Then think, man-your position! South of the Bashee doesn't mean a thing! You've got to pinpoint the place!'

I was too exhausted to be anything but on the defensive. 'My ship was damaged before I could report or go to his rescue. .' I started to say. I pulled myself up. My story could wait. I dug a spur into my jaded brain. I must try and give Lee-Aston positions and plots for the search, then perhaps I could return in the frigate. . Where, I asked myself under the captain's cool scrutiny, where exactly had I seen Alistair go down? I had held the Waratah's course but after that-what? I had no idea where the frigate had found us. We could have drifted twenty miles in the night, and even farther, out to sea. I had also to take into account that extraordinary feeling of standing still while Walvis Bay's engines pounded at thirteen knots..

I came out with figures, positions, estimates. When I had finished, Lee-Aston did not answer, but picked up a telephone. 'Lieutenant, come down here, will you? I want you to see Captain Fairlie safely to his ship.'

The agony of Alistair and the agony of the night flooded back. I grabbed Lee-Aston's salt-caked jacket. 'I've got to find him. .!'

He eased himself free of my grip, unruffled at my outburst. He was as detached, as professional, as a surgeon at an operation.

'I was given a job, and I've done only half of it by finding Walvis Bay. She's a dockyard job. The other half is to get her safely to port.' He shrugged. 'Your position figures-the Navy and the Air Force are working on the Buccaneer's projected crash area. That's at least forty miles to the north of where you say.'

Exhaustion slipped the halter on my words.

'Nonsense! It was right in the Waratah area, not to the north. .'

My words froze under his cool appraisal.

'Ah, Waratah! Fairlie, the Waratah man!'

I dropped my eyes, fumbling for a reply.

He went on slowly, levelly. 'I've heard of your interest in the Waratah. So has the C-in-C

Feldman, the bastard! I thought. During those long months I had worked at sea on my computations, he had probably been quietly talking about my preoccupation with Waratah. In a small ship like Walvis Bay there can be no secrets. Only he could have gabbed about my extracurricular activities to people in the Weather Bureau — possibly in an attempt to discredit me and try and get the command for himself.

The abyss gaped in front of me. Watch and wait is all I could do.

Tafline, too, watched and waited by the radio. She had shared her anxiety with Mr Hoskins. Not even in the final days of Touleier's race, he had confided to her, had he felt such concern as now: the yacht had deliberately kept radio silence to fox her rivals. A loner if ever there was one, Mr Hoskins had said-and she gleaned something more about me from his warm affection — but now there is something more than that. Hard to put your finger on, but he's changed. Somewhere deep inside him he's got a problem and he's trying to thrash the sea to work it out…

Have you ever been on board his ship? she asked.

No, replied Mr Hoskins, surprised. Did you see anything. .?

Yes, she thought to herself. I did. I saw the photograph of the Waratah.

But to Mr Hoskins she said, 'No, nothing. It was just an impression. It's all so stark, so clinical, so functional. All the man is kept out of sight.'

Mr Hoskins had smiled. And she smiled too, but she did not say that she had sat up all night.

Mr Hoskins said, 'He was never the same after his father's airliner crashed. Almost in the same place as …'

She said, not thinking, 'As his brother crashed.'

Mr Hoskins said, 'How do you know that? The radio didn't say so.'

'No,' she replied, 'but it is.'

Mr Hoskins put down his work and said, 'If you know that, wouldn't you rather go home and listen?'

Then the radio broke in and gave a news flash. Walvis Bay was making for port.

'No,' she said, 'but I'd like to go out and send a telegram.'

I caught a glimpse of Walvis Bay through the frigate's porthole. I had turned from Lee-Aston's stare, trying to muster an answer. The weather ship rolled comfortably, almost, taking aboard only an occasional dollop. The thought goaded me at the sight — the thing which had nearly destroyed us during the night was slipping away with the realignment of the violent elements, master-current, counter-current, gale. I had to persuade Lee-Aston.

I went for the truth. I said slowly, ‘I defied the Navy order. I admit that. I risked my ship; I admit that. You were out in the storm last night, and you saw what it was like. I had to find out every detail of it. Sixty years ago a fine liner went to the bottom in exactly the same sort of storm. The fundamental purpose of this weather ship of mine is the protection of oil rigs. In knowing why the Waratah sank, I can best ensure the safety of the oil rigs when they start to drill off Pondoland.'

Lee-Aston remained remote, unmoved. 'Maybe — maybe not. Fortunately I am not called upon to judge your motives. I am only a naval officer, doing his duty.' He gestured to the lieutenant who had come to the door.

'Lieutenant, see Captain Fairlie back to his ship. Cast off the line. Get a tow aboard the weather ship.'

'You. . are. . not. . going. . for. . the. . Buccaneer..?'

'Captain Fairlie, my orders were to find you. I have. If Walvis Bay was a navigational hazard, my orders were to sink her by gunfire. If she was afloat, I was to take her in tow to Cape Town. The search for the Buccaneer is being well cared for, I assure you. Unlike you, I obey orders. Now please get back to your ship and make fast the tow.'

'You can't. .' I expostulated.

'Subordination to orders is the heart of the Navy,' he replied. 'It has also been recommended, in another context, as a true philosophy of acceptance in life. I commend it to you. I shall let the C-in-C have a full report of our conversation. He is acting on behalf of the Weather Bureau since it concerns the sea and ships. Now, may I wish you good morning?'

I went.

The tow was secure, and I was pulling off my boots on my damp bunk before trying to snatch some exhausted sleep. Smit and I had heaved the cabinet off the bunk. The wetness and chaos made the place doubly depressing. There was wreckage everywhere.

Smit knocked at the door and handed me a paper.

'Signal from the frigate, sir. To be passed on to you personally.'

I unfolded the slip and read the relayed telegram.

Until we see each other, please keep away from the Waratah. Tafline.

Tafline!

So that was her name.

So she knew.

So did the Navy.

So did the Weather Bureau.