A Ship's Tale (39 page)

“
But as I say, the public seems to be well on your side so HM's ministers are treading carefully. I've got demands for follow-up stories and more photos. Until someone actually spots you, I can't just jump into a plane and snap some. I also need some biographical material on all of you, since none of you is world famous yet. Central records for the Services are not giving anything away. The police came to the office, but I only said I didn't know where you are and couldn't reveal the sources of my information. Someone may be so unhappy that he'll pull strings to have the police trail me. Nobody followed me today, but I'll keep an eye on my back all the same
.”

“Well now,” I said, “as for biographies, Edward our navigator is here now. While he's telling you his deepest and darkest secrets, I'll round up the others to give their own stories.”

“
That sounds like a good idea, but before you go
,” Richard broke in quickly, “
why don't you and I have a little talk about Gretna Green
?
Even
The Times
has been known to take notice when the story contains a genuine appeal to the interests of its women readers
.”

I was a bit taken aback. I didn't like to say anything about Katherine and me without consulting her. I said to him, “I'll have to clear that with the lady first. Why don't you start with Edward? Harris will be here soon. Meanwhile, I'll go and talk with her.”

“
All right
,” Richard replied, “
but bring her back with you. I'd like to ask her some questions other women may wonder about
,
such as can she get a regular bath
and has she her own cabin
?”

“Well, you've a point there, but now here's Edward.” I handed the handset to Edward to do his blarney and went to tell the others.

When I got to Katherine she wasn't too happy at first at the idea of telling a reporter anything, but I said there was no need to be too detailed. I'd discreetly add that she was a very good cook and that we hoped to find something for a husband and wife team in Scotland.

“You never know,” I said to her, “someone might read this and offer us a job. You may even become a celebrity!”

“If we're not all in prison!” she said curtly. I asked her to go up to the chart room and wait for me because I needed to have a word with Boris.

When I found Boris, he was repairing some ratlines in the lower shrouds where they took the most wear. I asked him plainly if he had papers to be living in England. He said he had some before, but they'd expired and then got stolen. “Very bad place I stayed, but no money.” I told him about the newspaper reporter wanting to know the crew, but he said better not to include him, in case the police or somebody got curious.

I agreed and started back when I realised that the bear would be my real inspiration.

If the English are stupid about anything, it's about animals: treating them like members of the family, guessing what they're thinking, dressing them up, risking their lives, and sometimes even dying for them. I was sure the bear would cover all our sins. We'd be forgiven even such crimes as stealing the canvas and taking the bear without permission. But first he needed a name, so when people pictured him in their minds, they could make him one of their own. I asked Boris if he knew of any name for the bear, but he said I should ask Harris.

When I got back, Harris was in the chart room waiting to talk to Richard. I told him I'd spoken to Boris and that he didn't care for publicity because of his papers, so no one should mention him for now. I shared my thoughts about the bear and asked if he could remember the bear's name when they were younger. Harris thought it over, muttering to himself, “Brown bear...brown bear,” but in the end said that Brown Bear was what everyone always called him.

“I'm going to tell Richard the whole story,” I said. “I'm sure he can make use of it and as one brown bear looks much like another, he could use any photo.” I grew excited as another idea hit me. “Perhaps we can get some good free publicity for the circus, about how kind they were to the bear, and how they were just looking after it until they were to give it to the retirement home or whoever was asking for it and…and…” I faltered as I thought of the circus in terms of our sails. I'd never really liked the idea of our taking the canvas. This way we might be able to contact the owners before they complained to the police.

Harris declined this with one hard crash of his fist on the table. “You tell nothing of the sort about their giving good treatment to that bear! Those bastards should be in cages themselves with people throwing food in at them! You can tell Richard the story, but if you say one kind word about any of those people, I'll skin you alive and fly your arse from the main-truck!” he thundered. “Do you understand?”

“Of course, it was only an idea. Consider it dropped,” I said hastily.

Finally, after we all related our stories, I told Richard about the bear.

He could hardly believe his ears. “
What're you trying to do
?” he shouted with delight, “
get the prize for the most tear-jerking story of the year? I can see it now—big bold headlines reading:
Lovers' Tryst Sealed by Brown Bear
or
Waifs of the Water Need Love and New Homes
. Or, what about
Ship's Mate Meets Childhood Friend
? Oh, I have it!
Bear With a Past, Before the Mast
,
Mr. Bruin Sails to Gretna Green
…My God, do you know how much this sort of thing sells papers? You'll be in every last one from the
Land's End Gazette
to the
Truro Times
, and all points in between, including the
Dumbarton Dispatch
. As you get closer to port, I can bet you'll have planes flying over for photographs, including one from my people.

“
Finally
,” he said portentously, “
questions will be asked in the House of Lords, and you'll be the leading item in the six o'clock news every day. Oh! You're going to come out of this smelling of roses
.” Richard was almost singing at the thought of the scoop this would make.

I left the others in the chart room and went outside where the last of the day was fading, though it wasn't doing so without protest. The sky was almost black and on the horizon lightning was flashing down, with thunder reaching us in a slow grumbling roll with hardly a break between peals. The wind was westering now. Boris and the boys had close-hauled us in while all the radio talk was going on. Soon we'd have to go about on the other tack, trying to make the distance west as best we could against the headwind. The storm was indeed coming.

Chapter 24

A STORM AT SEA

One of the most fearsome forces in nature is the power of the sea and the massive intensity of its violence when aroused. The storm we'd been watching close in from astern was now fully upon us. Just preceding it, and amidst the fury of the first blow, a heavy squall pounded down upon us. Adding to the bedlam of noise, the sails bellied out drum-tight and the sound of the wind through all the rigging became a sharp shrilling amongst the thunderous roar, with the yardarms and masts creaking and protesting against the enormous strain. The wind was coming more from the south and the ship began quickly to gather way, breasting the valleys between the waves, and clipping along through the tops of the raging torrent.

This was the weather the
Bonnie
was designed for. Her sails were there to take advantage of the winds that storms brought and to make journeys quicker. Sailors once preferred that the glass read
storm
—but not in my day. I reflected back on my time in the Royal Navy, when storms were a thing to dread. The ships we sailed were much heavier, but they were no real match for storms, unlike the
Bonnie
. As incredible as it may sound, it is more incredible to have lived this experience.

The waves had grown into mountains, crashing over the bow and washing over the decks. Boris, Robert, and I were leading the two watches, ready for any crisis, and we led the charge from one situation to another. Each one was different, although each had a truly major significance of its own. Harris, being the strongest of us, took up his position at the helm. Steering through a storm was no small task, and we knew that even Harris would need assistance at the double wheel when the going became really difficult. And it didn't take long to reach that point.

Boys were rapidly becoming men in circumstances such as this, scrambling through the rigging and handling the sails exactly as they were trained. Boris was living aloft, yelling orders to some and using his bo'sun's pipe, giving the orders for hauling and bracing the yards. His unique way of getting from mast to mast was surely unparalleled and had certainly never been seen or heard of even by this company of tall ship sailors. He'd rigged several lines in such a way as to allow him to swing from one mast to another without any need of descending to the deck below. We thought this a bit reckless, but his sense of timing and anticipation of movements of the ship were faultless. I doubt to this day if there was ever a soul who could match such a performance. At that moment, I thought he was quite mad.

We'd stopped worrying over the MTB in pursuit. If they were venturing out in this weather, they would have found themselves floating like a cork on a rough mill-pond while boys tried to hit it with stones.

Above the roar of the wind sounded the shrill whistle of the bo'sun's pipe. Each blast was signalling which sail and what mast. Boris had memorised these commands over the years he'd spent at sea. Still, even though things were running quite smoothly, these were extremely arduous tasks. Time after time, green water swept over the decks taking everyone off his feet. Had it not been for the harnesses Boris rigged up for the boys, some would have been washed overboard so quickly that no one would have noticed. Bowman had taken up position on the deck and Boris referred to him in all matters concerning the sails. It was far too easy for them to blow out if not properly set, and the boys on deck were continually on the go, bracing the yards or hauling on the buntlines.

Each time the call came for all hands aloft, I found my old fear returning with a vengeance. The higher you climb, the more you notice the pitch and roll of the ship. Your focal point must be only that which is in front of you. If you look down or to the side, you tend to freeze and it takes time to regain your equilibrium. I recalled my first conversation with Bowman, when he ranted on about there was nothing romantic about hauling in wet canvas with nothing holding you to the yardarm except the wind at your back. My mind constantly replayed Boris's comments about falling from such a height. The word
splat
was ever-present in my mind. I'm not happy aloft in a storm, but I couldn't let anyone know lest the lads should notice. They were doing a marvellous job weathering this storm and hanging onto the wet cold yardarms safely clipped in Boris's harnesses. When I descended to the deck, a feeling of fatigue overcame my entire body. I looked at my hands. They were raw and blistered, not to mention frozen from the seawater and wind. I could scarcely raise them over my head.

I looked towards the wheel where Harris, now assisted by Larry, was hard at work trying to control the rudder. I thought Larry was a bit lightweight for this kind of sea and started over to relieve him, even though I was exhausted, when another sea came over the side. Once again I lay there soaking wet. I was grateful for the wool I was wearing because it kept me warm, but the wetter I became, the harder it was to move about. The fury of this blow was absolutely unprecedented in my experience.

I'd just got my legs back under me when I heard a call from the rigging, “Help, need help now!” over the sounds of the wind and waves.

The voice was unmistakable. Even over the roar of the storm, I could hear Boris calling for help. I had rarely heard Boris ask for assistance, much less help, so without delay, I immediately started up the shrouds towards the voice in the darkness. The night wind was cruel and the squall was relentless as several of us climbed up against the pitching sea. There was little to see and communication was extremely difficult. I realised he was at the level of the upper topsail yard. By this point I could barely feel my arms—they were reacting in a mechanical fashion. Just then I heard the call again, but I couldn't tell if Boris was on the port or starboard side of the ship. I called out on the darkness, “Where are you?”

“Here!” came the familiar voice from the port side of the yardarm. I carefully set my feet on the footrope under the yard, held fast to the jackstay rail atop, clipped my safety-line to it, and edged my way slowly towards his voice. As I made my way along the yardarm I saw that one of the boys had slipped. His hands were gripping the upper rail, but his feet had come off the footrope. It seemed that only the harness was holding him to the yard along with his frozen grip of terror. Boris was on the other side of him. They must have been trying to furl the topsail when the boy slipped, because now one end of the sail was flailing around in the wind while hanging down from the yard. The real danger would come if a burst of wind blew it over the yard. Getting hit by a ton of wet canvas did not bear thinking of. I thought we should move the boy first, as quickly as possible.

“Are you all right?” I shouted to Boris.

“Yes,” he came back, “but boy is not, must move him quick.”

“What can I do?” I shouted, my voice nearly drowned out by the shrill winds.

“I will pull harness, you pull boy. Both pull up on yardarm and clip his harness to you,” Boris directed.

“All right, tell me when you're ready,” I yelled back to him. We both got a good grip and pulled, but couldn't move the boy, and couldn't get him to put his feet back onto the footrope. Boris pulled again. This time I hauled the boy in towards me, until we had him bent over the yardarm enough for me to clip his harness to mine. I double-checked to make sure I was connected to the yardarm, you may be sure!

“Pull boy!” Boris cried. If I thought my arms hurt before, I was wrong. Now the boy's dead weight made them ache so badly I really couldn't control them. I couldn't get the boy to move towards the mast, he was still clinging in terror to the jackstay. There was no time to try persuasion so I simply hit his fingers as hard as I could with my own throbbing hands until he let go. Once he did so, he seemed to come to himself and moved back with me towards the mast.

It was then that a tremendous gust of wind caused the sail to fly footloose up over the yardarm, covering Boris. I tried hard to push against the canvas with my legs but couldn't get enough force into it as I was holding fast onto the young lad. Again the wind hit, lifting the sail like a rag and dropping it to flap wildly under the yard.

Of Boris there was no sign. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was not possible! Even now I find it hard to express my feelings about that moment. It was a combination of shock, horror, and disbelief. Boris was gone!

I continued pulling the boy towards the mast as I called out Boris's name. One of the others, who had heard that first call for help, now reached me. It was Robert.

“Let me give you a hand there,” he yelled.

“By God, Robert, the sail blew up over the yardarm and Boris is gone,” I shouted in his ear, my throat constricting. Robert looked over at the still-unruly slapping canvas, but before either of us could say another word, a shout came from the darkness on the starboard side.

It was Boris!!

“My God, man, I thought you'd gone for good! What happened?” I shouted against the wind. Boris just shrugged his shoulders.

“This night bad, yes?”

“Yes, it bloody well is,” I yelled, trying to make myself heard. “How did you keep from falling?”

At this he just laughed and answered, “Boris not fall, always ready. Get boy down now!”

Robert and I helped the boy down the bucking shrouds, while Boris got the end of the buntline and returned aloft to finish reefing the unruly sail. When we arrived on deck, one of the other boys came over and helped his exhausted friend away.

It was then that it all caught up with me. My arms hung loosely at my sides, my head lolled, as I hung there half-standing and half-suspended from a lifeline. Suddenly I was startled by a shout in my ear.

“You're not getting much done just hanging about there,” Harris roared. I looked at him dully.

“I'm bloody well spent,” I shouted back, and explained what had just happened.

He didn't seem very impressed. “Oh very well, have a fifteen-minute break, that's all we can afford. All hands are busy at their stations and we need everyone, so be quick about it.”

I was no position to argue the point further, so I simply thanked him. As I was making my way below, however, Harris called, “If you can manage any sort of rest or relaxation in fifteen minutes, please let me know how it's done.” And he went off along the deck to catch up some pins that were clattering about in the scuppers.

Although my welcome respite truly was necessary, Harris was not very encouraging as to my making much recovery in so short a time, but I was more than willing to try.

I made my way aft and slid back the hatchway to reveal the familiar ladder. Climbing down, I managed to pull it shut. My arms ached and descending the ladder was agony in the tossing ship. At least I was out of the shrieking wind and beyond reach of the continuously breaking waves, but I was hearing the heavy clanging of the freeing ports along the well deck, which made a thunderous clatter.

I made my way to the galley, but didn't find Katherine there. Only a lukewarm urn of tea clamped to a table and some biscuits in a tin were there to greet me. I helped myself to some of each.

I then noticed an unsavoury smell that I knew only too well. Someone here was seasick, maybe more than one. When I reached Katherine's cabin I quite forgot what manners I had learnt and pounded heavily at the door.

“That's Flynn, I suppose. Don't break it in,” came her welcome. The door slid open immediately and there she stood in an overcoat and scarf. “Well, is it over yet?” She asked with a laugh.

“Hardly,” I groaned. “I came down to see how you're holding up.”

She cast an eye over me. “Flynn, you're completely soaked.” Well, that was obvious enough.

“Yes, it does tend to happen to people in a storm on a sailing ship.” I managed a small laugh for her benefit, but it was quite without mirth. I was absolutely knackered.

“You should get out of those wet togs straightaway,” she insisted.

“Oh, it's not worth it. I'm only going up on deck and get soaked again,” I sighed. I spotted a most inviting chair hard by the bunk. Perhaps any chair would have looked inviting at that moment, but this chair positively beckoned; I immediately staggered forward and collapsed gratefully into it.

“I hope you don't mind,” I said weakly, as Katherine slid the door closed.

“Oh, no, Do make yourself at home,” she said. “What's happening on deck now?”

“Everything that possibly can happen, good and bad.” I answered, stretching my soggy limbs. “I'm so knocked out now that I just had to have a tiny break.” I gave her a short summary of the night, including the retrieval of the boy and Boris's amazing escape. “We're all working as hard as we can, and it's going to take all of us giving everything we have. If the wind veers any more, we'll need to come about on the other tack and that's a big enough job without a storm. But,” I added, “as bad as this storm may seem, the wind has brought us quite a distance from the MTB that was chasing us. She's confined to harbour, as she simply wasn't designed for weather like this. In fact it's just this type of weather we need to help us keep well ahead, and I'm afraid we'll be looking at a few more days of the same.”

Katherine looked at me and gave a sigh. “Oh well,” she said with a game smile, “I suppose I'll have to stay with it now that I'm here. It's not exactly as if we can get out and walk at this point.” Her endurance was remarkable. It gave me the uncomfortable feeling that I was the only one who was making a fuss about my discomfort.

“By the way, how's that bear doing through all this?” she asked.

“He's all right, I suppose. Boris and Harris have been keeping an eye on him, but it's Boris who seems to do all the work.” I tried to stretch out my arms, but the effort only gave me pain. “I don't know how he manages it.”

Katherine shook her head. “He's an amazing person. I can't believe I once slapped him in the pub,” she laughed.