Run Before the Wind (31 page)

"Bound for where?"

"I haven't been able to determine that."

"Do you think he might come back?"

"I don't know, I might have further information later. But listen to me very carefully, now; you and the priest are not to return to this diocese unless I explicitly authorize it, on pain of excommunication.

Do you understand that?"

"Excommunication? Are you serious?"

"I am quite serious, I assure you. The order you have chosen requires the strictest obedience, far stricter than the one you left.

You must take your instructions from me and from those I delegate, is that quite clear?"

There was a moment's sullen silence.

"Yes, it's quite clear," she said, finally.

"What are your instructions?"

"I want you to contact the Dublin parish; the number you used before is still good. Take your instructions from the mon signor

"But .. ."

"He understands that you and the priest are to work independently, but you must coordinate your tasks with him. You are still well-financed, I believe?"

"Fairly well. If we undertook any major new charitable work we would have to look for new funds, though."

"Clear that with the mon signor as well. I trust you can now handle fund-raising with somewhat more elan than in the past."

She laughed.

"I believe so."

"Good, best not to rely on luck in these matters. Go now, and do good works. I'll keep track of you through the mon signor so don't call me here unless it's absolutely necessary, and then only with the proper precautions."

"I understand."

"Good luck, then." He hung up and heaved a great sigh of relief. It wouldn't do to have those two blundering into his diocese, going after Mark Robinson. He would have to keep close tabs on them. He turned back to the farm accounts he had been working on.

WHEN I WOKE, late in the afternoon, it took me several seconds to realize where I was, and only an instant to regret it. I had been sleeping in an awkward position on a sail bag so my back was killing me, and I had a full-blown, very heavy, head cold. The atmosphere was cold and damp. Mark was sitting at the chart table, scribbling something on a pad by flashlight.

"Morning," he said, cheerfully, "or rather, afternoon. It's past five. Get any rest?"

"Not much," I grumbled, sitting up.

"Nobody's arrested us yet?"

"Certainly not," he laughed.

"We haven't broken any laws. All we've done is launch a new yacht a couple of weeks ahead of schedule."

I looked around at the shambles of gear around us.

"Nothing here is ahead of schedule," I said.

"Not anymore. And if we try and take her back to the yard, we'll be right back where we started.

If whoever's suing Derek knew about the boat before, you can bet your ass they'll know about her if we take her back."

"We're not taking her back," Mark said.

"Well, we're sure as hell not taking her to the Channel Islands, either, if experience tells us anything." I blew my nose loudly into a sodden handkerchief. The rest of me was still pretty damp, too.

"No," he agreed.

"We'll finish her here."

I stared at him sadly; he had finally gone right out of his head.

"Sure," I said.

"Why not?"

He kept writing on the pad.

"Willie, will you do me a favor?

Dig out the new rubber dinghy, row over to Dirty Murphy's and ring Annie, will you?" He ripped off a sheet from the pad and handed it to me.

"Ask her to get as much of this stuff together as she can and bring it over here tonight aboard Toscana. I reckon there's no more than one dinghy load here; she should be able to get it all aboard all right. Tell her to tow the dinghy and outboard when she comes, okay?"

I took the list and shoved it into my pocket.

"Sure, Mark." I thought it better to humor him. I rummaged about until I found the dinghy, neatly folded into its canvas bag. It was, of course, under everything else. Everything on the boat seemed to be under everything else. I humped it into the cockpit and unpacked it. Mark made no move to help me; he just kept writing; he seemed to be making " more lists. I inflated the dinghy with the foot pump, pausing frequently to rest. The head cold seemed to have robbed me of all my energy. Finally, the dinghy was firm, and I got it into the water and started for the pub. It was still foggy, though not as bad as before. I rowed slowly, trying to think.

I wanted out; it was as simple as that. I found it hard to believe that only the morning before, I had greeted the day feeling just great. In less than thirty-six hours everything seemed to have gone to hell. The shock of realizing how much I wanted Connie again lingered painfully with me, like a spear in the chest, and the more than three unthreatening, productive months we had spent on the boat seemed to have evaporated into nothing. We were stuck, now.

We hadn't the resources--power, tools, help--to finish the boat where she was; we couldn't take her back to the yard, and we couldn't get her to Jersey in the shape she was in. It was nearly June. I could spend the summer traveling, spend some time in Paris with Jane, who, at least, offered physical consolation, even if she never seemed to think about anything else; then, in the fall, I could return to law school. Law school was beginning to look pretty good.

I tied up in front of the pub and on my way to the phone, got hold of a large brandy. I needed it. I dialed the cottage, and Annie answered on the first ring.

"Yes?" Her voice was anxious.

"Your faithful and slightly bruised servant," I said. Slightly drunk, too; the brandy was making its way quickly to the important places, uninhibited by anything in my stomach.

"Willie, where are you?"

"I'm at Dirty Murphy's. Mark and the boat are nearby."

"Thank God. I talked to Finbar, and he said you were actually taking her out of the country."

"Oh, we did, we did. Right past the three-mile limit and back again."

She giggled.

"That's just like Mark; devious to the end."

"He's made up a list of stuff; he'd like you to bring it over here aboard Toscana." I read her the list; food, clothes, booze, flashlights, a couple of lanterns, some tools and a shotgun, my riot shotgun, which lived in my cupboard.

"And he says to tow the dinghy and outboard over. Can you manage?"

"Of course. Exactly where are you?"

"Two or three hundred yards past the pub, in a little inlet on the opposite side of the channel; you can hardly see it. We'll flash a torch for you. Make up bow and stern lines and lead them back to the cockpit. You can toss to me and we'll tie you up alongside the big boat."

"Right. It'll be about .. . two hours, I should say."

"See you then." I went back to the bar and ordered another brandy and some sandwiches; I took a bottle of brandy, too. Mark was still scribbling when I got back to the boat. I didn't ask what, just gave him a sandwich and a pull from the brandy bottle. We were both quite drunk by the time Annie arrived in Toscana. At Mark's insistence, we tied the smaller yacht across the stern of the larger one. That way, anyone passing would see only the smaller one, if he didn't look too closely. Toscana was a welcome haven-warm, dry and inviting. Annie made us some hot soup, while we stumbled about, laughing dmnkenly over nothing, getting out of our wet clothes and into sleeping bags.

"Oh, Mark!" Annie suddenly wailed, shock in her voice. Mark was struggling out of his jeans. I followed her line of vision to his knee. It was horribly discolored and badly swollen.

"Not to worry," he mumbled, reaching for a sleeping bag, "Not to worry. Be fine in a day or two." He was asleep almost immediately.

I told Annie about the launching and Mark's leap for the boat, then I fell asleep, myself.

I woke the next morning to the smell of cooking breakfast. Mark, incredibly for him, was still asleep. It was nearly ten o'clock. Annie didn't even say good morning.

"Listen to me, Willie. We've got to get Mark to a doctor this morning."

"Well, yeah, his leg doesn't look too good, does it?" I was thoroughly hung over.

"It could be a lot worse than it looks, even. He nearly lost it before, you know."

I looked at the sleeping figure.

"I've never seen him sleep late before. I didn't know he could."

"He can't, ordinarily. He's hurt, and his body is reacting accordingly. Here's your breakfast. As soon as you eat, will you row over to Dirty Murphy's and phone for a taxi? I'll get Mark up, and we'll be along shortly."

"How are you going to get him to leave the boat?"

"Don't worry, I'll get him over there; you just get the taxi. Tell them it's to go to Bon Secour Hospital in Cork."

I did as she said. Half an hour later they turned up at the pub in the other dinghy. Mark looking angry as hell. We all got into the taxi and started for Cork. Mark produced his lists.

"Here's the way we handle it, Willie. First, we get all that gear sorted out. The sails and other un necessaries can go aboard Toscana; that'll give us room to work."

I glanced at Annie. Her eyes told me to go along.

"Next, we get the generator running. That shouldn't be too tough."

"Mark, neither of us is an electrician."

"We don't have to be. The boat's whole wiring loom is in place, and everything is marked with tape. All we have to do is hook up.

And once we get the generator going we'll have power for tools.

We'll siphon diesel from Toscana to keep it going. It's all going to take longer than we'd scheduled, of course; there's a hell of a lot to be done, but we can do absolutely everything there is left to do right where she is, except get the mast in; we'll need a crane for that. Look, I've got a whole work plan outlined, with everything in the order it's to be done." He shoved his lists at me. I pretended to look at them. He talked all the way to the hospital.

Annie and I sat in the doctor's office and listened. The doctor, short, plump, and extremely Irish, clipped an X-ray film to a lightbox and switched it on.

"D'you want me to point at things and all that, or do you just want me to tell you?" he asked, in a musical Cork accent.

"Just tell me," Annie replied.

"He needs surgery, I'm afraid, and fairly quickly. Won't help to delay. Trouble is, there's nobody in Cork I'd want to do it; that knee's a mess, for a fact. There's one or two in Dublin and lots, I expect, in London. Who did the original surgery?"

"A Major Browning, at the Royal Naval Hospital in Plymouth."

"Then that's where I'd take him back," the doctor said, emphatically.

"This was a gunshot wound before, and they know about those things in the military. I expect he still has his service medal benefit, doesn't he?"

Annie nodded.

"Well, he's going to need at least one operation, maybe more, and it'd be expensive in a civilian hospital, I can tell you. There's a daily, direct flight from Cork to Plymouth. Shall I see if I can get you on today's plane? He's a strong fellow; he could manage with a wheelchair at both ends of the flight."

"Please, doctor, if you would," Annie said quietly.

"I'd better go and tell him."

I waited in the hallway, expecting to hear an explosion of protest;

there was none. The doctor went into the room, and shortly, the three of them emerged. Mark in a wheelchair.

"The plane leaves in an hour and a half, Willie. You ride with me to the airport in a cab while Annie picks up some things at the cottage."

As an orderly helped Mark into the cab I turned to the doctor.

"Assuming the surgery goes well, and the recovery, how long before he'll be all right again?"

The doctor shook his head.

"I could only give you a guess," he said, "but I don't think he'll ever be all right in the sense that he was before this accident. I'd say he'd be as good as he's going to be in, maybe, a year--that's with a good recovery. He'd be walking with a brace by then. He might not ever again walk without one."

I thanked him and got into the taxi with Mark. He started going over the list again, and then, maybe sensing that I wasn't with him, stopped.

"Willie, I know this looks bad, but we can still do this;

really, we can."

I looked at him.

"It doesn't look too good. Mark. Maybe with Finbar's and Harry's help I can get the boat in good enough shape to motor to England or the Channel Islands, but we're not going to make the Azores race, and remember, you've got to do a qualifying cruise before December thirty-first if the committee is going to accept you for the transatlantic. Don't you think it might be better to pass on the seventy-two race and aim for seventy-six? I'm sure Derek would let you have the boat."

He took hold of my arm, and if I had never seen a zealot before, I knew I was looking at one now.