Lifeboat! (18 page)

so violently and shipping water, and a huge wave finished the job. The boat keeled over and Julie felt herself falling into the sea.

She surfaced about two yards from the boat and struck out strongly for it. The sea was churning and tossing the sailing dinghy, but, fiercely determined, Julie clambered up on to the boat which was fortunately still only on its side. Again she tried to right the craft, but Howard, now panic-stricken, was clinging to the mast, forcing it below the level of the water, tipping the boat more and more towards a complete capsize. Julie yelled at him, pointing to the mast to try to indicate that he should release his hold on it. For a moment she thought he had understood. Then to her horror she saw him grasp the mast and fling it upwards out of the water. The sails came free of the water almost like a rubber suction disc giving way, catapulting the boat upright, but too far, for it rolled right over, thrusting Julie down into the water again and this time the dinghy turned right over into a complete capsize.

Julie, caught unawares, floundered in the sea for a few moments, trying to catch her breath, trying to regain her self-control. Again she fought her way to the boat and now there was no hope of righting it again. Aiming for the leeside, she felt around under the upturned craft until her fingers closed on a loose sheet. Keeping fast hold of this, she manoeuvred herself around the end of the boat looking for Howard.

There was no sign of him.

Her legs were beginning to go numb—the water was terribly cold and so choppy. Julie realised her only chance of survival was to climb up on to the hull of the boat. Almost exhausted, and already weakened by her strenuous efforts to keep the boat afloat each time it had capsized, three times she tried to scrabble her way up the slippery upturned hull.

At the fourth attempt buoyed up by a wave she found herself sprawling across the fibre-glass hull, but with sadistic cruelty where one wave had helped her a moment ago, the next, bigger than the last, struck the boat and the girl. She felt herself being washed off, with no hand-hold on the

smooth surface, helpless against the power of the sea, tossed and

engulfed like a piece of flotsam.
The waves closed over her head.

The wind howled over the
Hroswitha
, tugged at the tarpaulins covering the deck cargo and stretched the ropes that tied them down. The ship ploughed on, the ropes strained even more with every roll.

The intercom buzzed on the bridge. ‘ Captain,' came Ludendorff's gruff voice. ‘The engines are overheating—the starboard one has seized up completely.'

Schlick swore volubly. ‘ Can't you do your job? You're the engineer, aren't you?'

The engineer's voice came loudly into the wheelhouse. ‘Can't you captain a ship, you drunken fool?'

Droysen appeared in the doorway in time to hear the engineer's words, distorted by the communicating system but their meaning clear even above the howl of the wind and the storm. Words that echoed the First Mate's own feelings.

Then Droysen saw Schlick's fingers slacken on the wheel, watched horror-stricken as the big man's legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor. The wheel swung wildly to and fro and the ship pitched out of control in the heavy seas. Droysen made a dive for the wheel, but Schlick, rolling in agony on the floor and clutching his gut, got in the way and brought Droysen down too. The two men sprawled on the floor, Droysen half on top of the older man.

The First Mate dragged himself up and managed to put the ship on to automatic pilot. That at least would give him time to radio for help.

‘Mayday, Mayday,' he spluttered into the microphone. ‘
Hroswitha
calling St Botolphs Port. Mayday, Mayday!' His voice rose in panic whilst behind him. Captain Schlick tried to haul himself upright. The pain in his gut was terrible—the worst he had ever known it—and he thought he could taste blood rising in his throat. He clawed his way across the heaving floor and grabbed the mike from Droysen.

‘Let me. Find the deckies. See—Ludendorff.'

Droysen's eyes looked huge in his white, pinched face. He licked his lips, blinked several times and seemed to take a grasp of his rising panic. He staggered out into the howling gale.

Schlick called up the agents in the Port of St Botolphs and also the Harbour Master giving the ship's position and informing them that one engine had failed and the other was severely overheating. But he could not be sure whether he had been heard—there was no response from anyone—just a mass of crackling over the receiver.

For all Schlick knew he was broadcasting into empty airwaves.

Schlick felt the pain squeezing, stabbing, twisting his guts. The bile rose in his throat as his ship lurched beneath him at the mercy of the North Sea.

Schlick was slumped in the seat near the radio, the mike grasped in his left hand whilst his right he kept pressed into his stomach. If only he had not dropped that blasted bottle! His face was grey and despite the cold wind yowling around the bridge, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

He had sent Droysen in search of the deckhands, the three Turkish seamen who had apparently disappeared below decks the minute the weather had worsened. Droysen stumbled in, his face and shoulders were saturated from the flying spray, his hat had gone, torn off by the whipping wind.

‘They're useless—those deckhands! One's okay, he's gone to check the cargo, but the other two are cowering below like a couple of gibbering idiots!' the First Mate reported.

‘You're not much better yourself,' Schlick muttered and winced as the pain stabbed once more.

‘I'd have no fear if I had faith in my Captain. I'm not used to shipping with a drunkard.' It was a statement the quiet Droysen had never expected to hear himself make. Appalled at his own daring, he waited for Schlick's rage to explode. For a moment, anger gave Schlick's face a tinge of colour, then he groaned as the pain twisted again and thrust thick vomit into his throat.

‘I'm—I'm not drunk. But I will admit—to being a fool! I'm—sick—sick. This pain— I've had it weeks—months and I ignored it—refused to believe I— could be ill. Now I am being made to pay.'

Droysen stared at him and slowly he realised the truth. Captain Schlick was no alcoholic—he had scarcely touched the bottle in his locker during the early, smooth part of the passage. Droysen now understood. It was only when the weather got rough and the engines started overheating that he had seen Schlick reaching into the locker again and again.

‘Captain.' Droysen was hesitant again now, his moment of rebellion over. ‘I don't know if I should—if you should—it may do more harm—but I have a bottle of brandy in my …'

‘Get it, man, get it,' Schlick almost implored, stretching out shaking fingers towards the First Mate. Droysen was still staring at the sick man. How clear it was now. How could he not have seen it before? He stepped backwards and then hurried out.

Whilst he waited, Schlick once more broadcast his mayday message and prayed that Droysen would not drop the bottle on his way back.

Someone stepped into the wheelhouse. It was not Droysen but one of the Turkish seamen.

‘Captain—rope on deck cargo. She go …' He made a clicking noise with his mouth and flung his hands wide apart.

‘Broken, you mean?'

The man nodded. ‘Broken—yes.'

Droysen appeared in the doorway behind the seaman, the bottle of brandy in his hands. Schlick's eyes were on the bottle, his hand reaching out towards it. For a brief moment Droysen still hesitated, unsure whether the sick man should really take more alcohol. But the pleading in the big man's eyes was more than he could stand. He handed the brandy to Schlick, who opened it with trembling fingers and drank deeply. He closed his eyes and then let out a great sigh.

Whether the brandy actually helped so swiftly or whether it was merely the man's belief that the pain would now ease, when Schlick opened his eyes again, he was already once more alert and able to think rationally again.

‘Droysen—I can manage now. Go and inspect the deck cargo. This deckie says a rope's snapped. And get him'—Schlick nodded towards the Turk—‘to fire a red flare.'

‘Right, Cap'n.' Droysen disappeared. The Turk followed, but not before he had cast a sly look at the brandy-bottle.

Moments later, through the driving rain, Schlick saw Droysen inching his way along the starboard rail. The howling gale was whipping up the water and twenty-five-foot waves were coming at them now. Behind him on the poop, the Turk fought to keep his balance on the slippery deck whilst he detonated a parachute flare. The first shot up into the air, but the wind extinguished it. The second flared briefly, shot over the deck rail and immediately fell into the water. At the third attempt the deckie failed to hold it properly and the rocket ricocheted off the superstructure, fell on to the deck and fizzled out. Muttering Turkish oaths, he made a fourth attempt and this time the red flare snaked up into the sky and burst and the tiny white parachute opened. The gale tore at it relentlessly, but the flare glowed red in the lowering sky.

Schlick saw the flare go up. Even if his radio message had not got through, perhaps someone would see the flare. He glanced down at his instruments. In a few minutes he would be well within the boundaries of the Wash. He prayed that that would give them more shelter, but then, he realised, there were the sandbanks on either side. With this weather and the ship in this condition, those banks could prove a hazard rather than a haven. Somewhere far beneath his feet he felt a shudder pass through the hull of his ship and then there was only the sound of the sea and the wind and rain.

For some reason the second engine had stopped. Now the
Hroswitha
was drifting helplessly.

Schlick squinted through the screen. Through the slanting rain and the turbulent sea, he could just see—intermittently—the fitful light on the Lynn Well Lanby, the buoy shaped like an upturned mushroom.

Wincing again as the pain stabbed afresh, Schlick operated the anchor mechanism and let out a sigh of relief as the anchor bit and for a while the ship was held, tossed and buffeted by the gale and the huge waves, but reasonably safe for the time being.

But for how long?

Pete Donaldson awoke to find the place beside him in the big bed empty. He had returned home the previous evening to an empty house. He had showered and made a plate of sandwiches ready for Angie's coming home and then he had sat with his feet up in front of the television. He had awoken to find Angie shaking his shoulder. ‘Hey—you should be in bed, love, if you're that tired.'

Pete yawned and stretched. ‘What time is it?'

‘Half-ten. You go up. I'll have a quick shower.'

Pete had dragged himself up the stairs, his eyes almost closing, his limbs heavy with tiredness. He had tried to stay awake, had heard the shower running and Angie singing to herself …

When Angie came into the bedroom, her cheeks pink and glowing from the shower, her hair damp and curling, Pete was gently snoring.

And now, this morning, he had still been asleep when she had slipped out of bed and gone to help at the cafe again.

‘Well,' said Pete aloud to the otherwise empty house. ‘I'm not staying here on my own all day. I'll go to the café for my dinner. I'll get to see my wife somehow!' He grinned, ruefully amused at how Fate seemed to be conspiring to keep himself and his lovely Angie apart this weekend.

The café was absolutely packed with mackintosh-clad and bedraggled holiday-makers. There was even a queue forming near the cash desk waiting for a table to become vacant. Pete threaded his way through the throng towards the kitchens. As he approached the swing door, a pink-faced Angie came through from the kitchen, her blonde hair dishevelled, a harassed frown on her smooth forehead and balancing two dishes of soup on each hand.

‘Oh—hello, darling.'

‘Hello, love. You look a bit busy.'

She smiled, the corners of her mouth turning down in mock annoyance. ‘Just a bit! It's the weather, I suppose.'

Pete side-stepped to let her pass. ‘Any dinner going for a hungry husband?'

‘We're about to stop serving dinners now, but see Mum in the kitchen, love,' Angie replied over her shoulder. ‘I'll be back in a mo.'

As he went through the swing door, the heat from the kitchen hit him like a solid wave. ‘Phew!' he said to his mother-in-law, an attractive, plump blonde—an older edition of Angie, ‘ how on earth do you stand this all day?'

‘I sometimes wonder, lad. Want some dinner? Help yourself.'

‘Thanks, Peg.' Anything but her Christian name did not suit the young, energetic forty-five-year-old woman. Only Angie ever called her ‘Mum.'

Pete piled his plate high with steak-and-kidney pie, mashed potatoes and peas and was just sitting down in a comparatively quiet corner of the busy kitchen to enjoy his lunch when above the clatter of pans and the bubbling saucepans he heard the familiar bang of the lifeboat maroon.

Angie came through the swing door just in time to see Pete heading for the back door out into the yard. ‘See you, Peg,' he was shouting to her mother. ‘Tell Angie …' But he never looked back to see his wife standing there.

The telephone call had come through to the coastguard just before three o'clock. The voice said, ‘I reckon I've just seen a red flare go up somewhere out in the Wash. I'm sorry I can't be any more precise than that.'

‘May I have your name, sir?' Jack Hansard asked the caller.

‘My name—well, yes,—but does that matter?'

‘Just to make it official, sir.'

‘Oh yes, of course. Raymond Graham.'

‘Where exactly were you when you saw the flare?'

‘I was out on the mud flats south of the Haven—doing a spot of bird-watching, but it got so rough, I decided to pack it in. I was just getting all my gear together and I happened to glance out to sea and I saw this thing—well, it looked like a flare. I mean, I can't be absolutely definite, but I thought I ought to report it anyway.'