The Blue Ice (5 page)

I went aft to where Dick sat, a still, dark figure behind the wheel, the slender mizzen mast outlined like a spear against the glow of London. ‘I'll take her now,' I said. ‘You go down and get our passengers sorted out. Allocate cabins, issue blankets, sheets, clothes, anything they need. Keep them occupied, Dick, and separate Jorgensen from Dahler. Introduce the Somers girl to the galley and have her get a meal together. Don't give any of them time to think. I don't want anyone, least of all Jorgensen, coming up to me and asking to be put ashore.'

‘Okay, skipper,' he said. ‘I'll do my best.'

‘Oh, and tell them to write down any messages they want sent,' I added as he moved off. ‘Explain we've got transmitting as well as receiving sets.'

‘Right,' he said and disappeared down the companionway.

I slipped into a duffel coat and took my place behind the wheel. Wilson was coiling down the warps. I called to him and he came aft. He was a Cornishman, not young, but a fine seaman. ‘Get Number One jib and stays'l from the sail locker,' I said. ‘And the jib-headed tops'l. If the wind doesn't increase we'll be able to carry them.'

‘Aye, aye, sir,' he said. His seamed, weather-beaten face showed ruddy in the glow of the port navigation light. He paused. ‘Is there any truth in what Mr Everard was saying, sir, that we're bound for Norway?'

‘Quite true,' I said. ‘Make any difference to you?'

His rugged features spread into a grin. ‘There's better fishing in Norway than in the Mediterranean.' He spat over the lee rail as though to emphasise the uselessness of the Mediterranean and went for'ard. My gaze wandered to the masthead. The light, signifying that we were a sailing vessel under power, shone on the bare rigging. I settled myself down to the long vigil of conning the ship down to the mouth of the estuary. I didn't need the chart. I'd been up and down the Thames under sail so often. I knew every turn and twist, the buoy lights and the landmarks. Going down under power was comparatively straightforward. The only thing that worried me was whether Jorgensen would stay aboard.

It was with a sigh of relief, therefore, that I watched the Royal Naval College at Greenwich slide past in the darkness. He was not the sort of man who couldn't make up his mind. I'd said I'd set him ashore at Greenwich if he wanted me to. Since he hadn't requested me to, the odds were he had decided to stay. But I wouldn't be happy till I picked up the Nore. After that there'd be no turning back.

Half an hour passed and then Dick came up. ‘Well, I've got them all sorted out,' he said. He glanced over his shoulder and in a mock whisper said, ‘Believe it or not, Jorgensen, the great Norwegian industrialist, is helping Jill get grub.'

‘Jill I take it is Miss Somers?'

‘That's right. She's a pippin. Got stuck into it right away. Knows her way around already.'

‘Where's Dahler?' I asked.

‘In his cabin. I've given him the single one for'ard of the saloon on the starb'd side. The girl's got the port one. Jorgensen's in with you and Curtis Wright's sharing with me.' He produced a sheaf of papers. ‘Shall I send these off right away?'

‘What are they?'

‘Messages for transmission.'

‘Leave 'em in the chartroom,' I told him.

‘They're quite straightforward,' he said. ‘Three from Jorgensen, one from Dahler and one from the girl.'

‘I'd still like to look them over,' I replied. ‘And get below again, will you, Dick. I don't want them left on their own till we're at sea.'

‘Okay,' he said, and went below.

It was cold, sitting there at the wheel, and the time passed slowly. I was impatient to be out of the river. Gradually the lights of the docks and warehouses on either side thinned out until black areas of darkness marked open countryside and mudflats. We passed a big freighter moving slowly upstream. Her deck lights slid quickly by and in a few minutes she was swallowed up by the night. At full ahead we made a good eight knots. Add to that a four knot tide and we were going downstream at a fair rate. At a call from Dick, Wilson went below and returned with mugs of steaming coffee and sandwiches for Carter and myself. By eight we were running past Tilbury and Gravesend and half an hour later we could see the lights of Southend. We were out in the estuary now and the ship was beginning to show a bit of movement. The wind was south-east and piling up a short, steep sea that hissed angrily in the darkness as it broke against our sides.

Dick joined me just as I picked up the Nore light, blinking steadily far ahead. ‘Dirty looking night,' he said. ‘When are you getting the sails on her?'

‘We'll run out to the Nore,' I answered. ‘Then we'll be able to steer our course with a good reaching wind. How's everything below?'

‘Fine,' he said. ‘Dahler went straight to bed. Said he's a bad sailor. Wright and Jorgensen are talking skiing over a bottle of Scotch. And the girl's changing her clothes. What about tonight – are we splitting into watches? Wright's done some sailing and Jorgensen says he can handle small boats.'

That was better than I'd hoped. The boat was an easy one to handle, and the four of us could have managed her quite comfortably. But if there were much sail changing to do, we'd soon tire ourselves out and then we'd have to heave-to for sleep. And I was anxious to get across to Norway as quickly as possible. ‘Right,' I said. ‘We'll split into watches. You take the starboard watch, Dick, with Carter, Wright and Jorgensen. For the port watch I'll have Wilson and the girl.'

That choice of watches was made without thought. Yet it was of vital importance to what followed. Almost any other split up would have made the difference. It would have put Jorgensen in my watch. But how was I to know then the violence that would be bred in the close confines of the ship.

I handed the wheel over to Dick and went into the chartroom to work out our course. I read the messages through and transmitted them. They were simple notifications of departure to Norway – Jill Somers to her father, Dahler to his hotel and Jorgensen to the London and Oslo offices of Det Norske Staalselskab. When I emerged I found Wright, Jorgensen and the girl all sitting in the cockpit. They were talking about sailing. The Nore Tower was quite close now, illuminating the ship each time the powerful beams swept over us.

‘Take over the wheel, will you, Miss Somers,' I said. ‘Keep her head to the wind.'

As soon as she had relieved Dick I called to Carter and we got the mainsail up. The canvas cracked as the boom slatted to and fro in the weird red and green glow of the navigation lights on either side of the chartroom. As soon as peak and throat purchases were made fast and the weather back-stay set up I had the engine stopped and I ordered Jill Somers to steer up Barrow Deep on course north fifty-two east. The mainsail filled as the ship heeled and swung away. In an instant we had picked up way and the water was seething past the lee rail. By the time we had set jib, stays'l and mizzen the old boat was going like a train, rocking violently as she took the steep seas in a corkscrew movement that brought the water gurgling in the scuppers at each plunge.

I sent Dick and his watch below. They were due on at midnight. Wilson was stowing gear down below. I was left alone with the girl. Her hand was steady on the wheel and she eased the boat over each wave with a sure touch, keeping steadily to her course. The light from the binnacle was just sufficient to show her features in silhouette against the howling darkness of the sea. Her fair hair blew free about her head. She was wearing a polo-necked sweater under a rainproof wind-breaker. ‘You're quite at home on a ship,' I said.

She laughed. And by the way she laughed I knew she was enjoying the wind and the feel of the ship under her. ‘It's a long time since I've done any sailing,' she said. And then a shade wistfully: ‘Nearly ten years.'

‘Ten years? Where did you learn?' I asked.

‘Norway,' she answered. ‘My mother was Norwegian. We lived in Oslo. Daddy was a director of one of the whaling companies at Sandefjord.'

‘Is that where you first met Farnell?' I asked.

She looked up at me quickly. ‘No,' she said. ‘I told you. I met him when I was working for the Kompani Linge.' She hesitated and then said, ‘Why do you suppose poor Mr Dahler queried George's death?'

‘I don't know,' I said. It was a point that had been puzzling me. ‘Why do you speak of him as – poor Mr Dahler?'

She leaned forward, peering into the binnacle, and then shifted her grip on the wheel. ‘He has suffered so much. That arm – it quite upset me to see him like that.'

‘You've met him before?' I asked.

‘Yes. Long, long ago – at our home.' She looked up at me, smiling. ‘He doesn't remember. I was a little girl in pigtails, then.'

‘Was he a business contact of your father's?'

She nodded and I asked her what sort of business he had been engaged in.

‘Shipping,' she replied. ‘He owned a fleet of coastal steamers and some oil tankers. His firm supplied us with fuel. That's why he came to see my father. Also he had an interest in one of the shore whaling stations, so they liked to talk. Father enjoyed being with anyone who was prepared to talk whaling.'

‘Why is Dahler scared to go back to Norway?' I asked. ‘Why does Jorgensen say he's liable to be arrested?'

‘I don't know.' She was frowning as though trying to puzzle it out. ‘He was always such a dear. Each time he came he brought me something from South America. I remember he used to say that's what he kept tankers for – to bring me presents.' She laughed. ‘He took me skiing once. You wouldn't think it now, but he was a fine skier.'

We fell silent after that. I was trying to visualise Dahler as he had been. She, too, I think, was lost in the past. Suddenly she said, ‘Why doesn't Major Wright deliver those messages he talked about?' She did not seem to expect any reply for she went on, ‘All these people on board your ship going to look at his grave; it's – somehow it's frightening.'

‘Did you know him well?' I asked.

She looked at me. ‘George? Yes. I knew him – quite well.'

I hesitated. Then I said, ‘Does this mean anything to you –
If I should die, think only this of me
?'

I wasn't prepared for the jolt my question gave her. She sat for a moment as though stunned. Then like a person in a trance she murmured the remaining two lines – ‘
That there's some corner of a foreign field – that is for ever England.
' She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide. ‘Where did you hear that?' she asked. ‘How did you know—' She stopped and concentrated on the compass. ‘Sorry. I'm off course.' Her voice was scarcely audible in the sound of the wind and the sea. She put the wheel over to port and the ship heeled again until her lee scupper seethed with water and I could feel the weight of the wind bearing on the canvas. ‘Why did you quote Rupert Brooke to me?' Her voice was hard, controlled. Then she looked up at me again. ‘Was that what he said in his message?'

‘Yes,' I said.

She turned her head and gazed out into the darkness. ‘So he knew he was going to die.' The words were a whisper thrown back to me by the wind. ‘Why did he send that message to you?' she asked, suddenly turning to me, her eyes searching my face.

‘He didn't send it to me,' I replied. ‘I don't know who it was sent to.' She made no comment and I said, ‘When did you last see him?'

‘I told you,' she answered. ‘I met him when I was working for the Kompani Linge. Then he went on the Malöy raid. He – he didn't come back.'

‘And you never saw him after that?'

She laughed. ‘All these questions.' Her laughter trailed away into silence. ‘Don't let's talk about it any more.'

‘You were fond of him, weren't you?' I persisted.

‘Please,' she said. ‘He's dead. Just leave it at that.'

‘If you wanted it left at that,' I answered, ‘why did you come along this morning, all packed and ready to go to Norway? Was it just a sentimental desire to see the grave?'

‘I don't want to see the grave,' she said with sudden heat. ‘I don't want ever to see his grave.'

‘Then why did you come?' I insisted.

She was about to make some angry retort. But suddenly she changed her mind and looked away from me. ‘I don't know,' she said. She spoke so softly that the wind whipped her words away into the night before I could be sure of what she said. Then she suddenly said, ‘Will you take the wheel now, please. I'm going below for a moment.' And that was the end of our conversation. And when she came up on deck again she stood out in the wind by the port navigation light, a tall, graceful figure, even in a duffel coat, moving rhythmically to the dip and climb of the ship. And I sat on at the wheel, talking to Wilson who had sat himself down in the cockpit and wondering how much she knew and what Farnell had meant to her.

We were near the Sunk Lightship now. I altered course for Smith's Knoll Lightship. An hour later we called the starboard watch and I took the log reading and marked up our course on the chart. Since setting sail we'd made a steady eight and a half knots. ‘Course is north thirty-six east,' I told Dick as I handed the wheel over to him.

He nodded vaguely. He was always like that first day out. In the six years he'd been in the Navy he'd never been able to conquer sea-sickness. Wright was feeling bad, too. His face looked green and sweaty and in contrast his hair flamed brighter red in the glare of the chartroom light. Jorgensen, on the other hand, attired in borrowed sweaters and oilskins, was as unaffected by the movement of the ship as Carter, who'd acclimatised himself by many years in the stokeholes and engine-rooms of aged freighters.

My watch was called again at four in the morning. The wind had strengthened to about Force 5, but the ship was riding easier. They had taken a tuck in the sails. Nevertheless, the movement was considerable. The sea had increased and
Diviner
was plunging her bowsprit like a matador's
espada
into the backs of the waves. All that day the wind held from the south-east, a strong, reaching wind that sent us plunging on our course across the North Sea at a steady seven to eight knots. By dust we were 155 miles on our way to Norway. Watch and watch about, and with every bit of sail we could carry, it was like real ocean racing. I almost forgot about the reason for the trip to Norway in the sheer exhilaration of sailing. The weather forecasts were full of gale warnings and shortly before midnight we had to shorten sail again. But the next day the wind lessened slightly and backed to the north-east. We shook out one of our reefs and, close hauled, were still able to steer our course.