“We get the fuck out of here. On Sycorax. You do the springs, then cast off the bow warp. Leave the stern till last.” Terry had sailed with me before and knew what he was doing.
But did Sycorax know? She had been out of commission for over six months, she was untested, and I had to take her to sea in a fretting wind against a flood tide. I dragged the mainsail cover back, lifted the boom, and fumbled with the topping lift. I saw Angela appear on the balcony of Bannister’s bedroom. She was staring down at me.
“Micky Harding!” I shouted at her. “Phone Inspector Abbott!” She turned away. “Springs and warp off!” Terry shouted at me.
“Standing by!”
The tide was swinging Sycorax’s bows off the wall. She was moving in the water at last.
“Let’s go!” The stern warp splashed off the wharf and Sycorax was unleashed. “Peak halliard, Terry!”
I did not trust the engine to start quickly, if at all. We were drifting on the tide and I needed a sail to give me some power. “Haul her up!”
I heard the rattle of the halliard and the flap of the big sail. It rose stiffly, stretching to the night wind, and there was a sudden creak as the starboard shrouds took the mast’s weight and I felt a sudden surge of joy. It was not how I had imagined it, not in the least how I had dreamed of it, but Sycorax and I were going to sea.
“Did you kill that big guy?” I asked Terry.
“Christ, no!” He was scornful. “Just brought some tears to his fucking eyes. Have you got a light down here?”
“Only an oil-lamp.”
He swore again. He had taken the companionway off to reveal the engine and was now trying to swing it into life. “Why can’t you get a decent fucking motor?”
“Can’t afford it.” I pegged the tiller. “Throw up the yellow sail bag, Terry.”
He struck a match, found the sail bag, and heaved it into the cockpit. I struggled forward with the heavy load. I hanked on the jib’s head, ran its tack along the bowsprit with the traveller, then hoisted away. I tied the sheets on to the sail and threw them back towards the cockpit. I heard Terry swear at the motor again and I told him to abandon it and hoist the mizzen. I could see figures standing on Bannister’s terrace. Would the police be waiting at the river’s mouth? I dragged the staysail from its bag and fumbled with its shackle. Terry had to unpeg the tiller and adjust our course as I pulled the sail up. My back was hurting.
I rove the foresails’ sheets through their fairleads, hauled the port sheets tight, and took over the tiller. We had no running lights, no compass, nothing but the boat, the sails and a pig of an engine that wouldn’t start. Terry had gone below again, had lit the chart table’s oil-lamp, and now swung the engine’s handle. Nothing.
The wind was made tricky by the western hills. At moments it seemed to die completely, then it would back suddenly to gust in a wet squall. Sycorax was in confusion. She had not been ready for sea, but to sea she was going. I heard the blessed sound of water running by her hull. We were clearing Sansom’s Point which at last hid the lights of Bannister’s house from us.
“Topsail, Terry. Remember how to do it?”
“Yes, boss.”
We now had jib, staysail, main, top and mizzen, and Sycorax was leaning to the wind, hissing the water, taking us fast down the river’s buoyed channel. Fast, though, was a relative term. We were moving through the water, but the tide was moving against us. Our motion felt fast enough, but from the bank we would be creeping at less than walking pace. I was also uncomfortably aware that Wildtrack II’s sharp bows might appear at any moment.
Terry, the topsail hoisted, came back to the cockpit. “What happened, boss?”
“Two rich men are having a row. Both tried to involve me. Bannister thought I’d joined the other side. Now he wants Sycorax.” Terry took that lot on board, then squatted below the coaming to light a cigarette. “I thought Bannister was a decent bloke. He seems nice on the telly. Sally always watches his programme.”
“He’s a bloody wally,” I said savagely, “and he wants to take Sycorax.”
“Sod him, then.” Terry complacently accepted my judgement.
“Exactly.” But I was thinking of that look of mingled remorse and hatred which Angela had shot at me. She thought I was the enemy, that I had betrayed her. God damn it, I thought, but my emotions had become inextricably tangled with her. “Bloody women,” I said.
“Bloody engine.” Terry had gone back to the struggle, swung the handle again, and by some miracle the old engine banged into protesting life. “Give it some throttle, boss!” I gave it some throttle, it threatened to die, then the cylinders settled into a proper, comforting rhythm and I slammed it into gear and Sycorax thrust forward against the tide.
“Where are we going?” Terry asked.
“I don’t have a clue.” I’d been trying to answer that myself. I needed to hide Sycorax from Bannister’s bailiffs. The only refuge I could think of was George Cullen’s boatyard on the Hamoaze. “Plymouth,” I suggested. “When do you have to be in barracks?”
“Fourteen hundred. Tomorrow.”
“It’ll be tight. You want me to drop you off at the town quay?” He glanced behind. “Will those buggers chase you?”
“They might.”
“I’ll stay.”
They followed us. The first I saw of our pursuers was a gleam of reflected lamplight from Wildtrack II’s polished bows. We were already abaft the town quay and the powerboat was a mile behind.
It could close the gap in seconds if it wanted, but clearly Bannister, or whoever was at Wildtrack II’s helm, did not want to make an interception in full view of the quay. The powerboat hung back.
Our engine began to run rough. The diesel fuel was old, and I suspected there was water mixed in it. I hated bloody engines. There had been many times when I had been tempted to haul the damn thing out and sink it, but Terry coaxed it and we limped on. Someone shouted at us from the quay that we had no lights.
The headlands that marked the river mouth closed on us. I could feel the wind’s uncertainty as it was confused by the masses of land.
Rain was slapping on the sails. There was white water at the bar and it would be a rough passage. The engine was missing a beat now, thumping horribly in its bearings. “Kill it!” I shouted. I didn’t want the shaft to shake the gland loose and let in sea water.
The engine died just as the bows juddered to the first sea. Sycorax was free at last, running to the ocean she was made for. Her sails were full and behind her the water whitened and spread. She took the steep, breaking seas like a thoroughbred and I whooped for the joy of the moment.
Terry grinned. “Happy, boss?”
“I should have done this bloody weeks ago!”
“And what about those bastards?” Terry nodded towards the river mouth where Wildtrack II had appeared.
“Screw them.” I gave him the tiller and set about trimming the sails. The topsail yard and jackyard were loose, the topping lift needed slackening and the foresail halliards tightening. We were heading westward, along the coast, and we were hard on the wind.
We went perilously close to the Calfstone Shoal from which a breaking wave shredded foam across our bows. The rain was slackening, and there were gaps in the southern cloud that were edged by silver moonlight. Sycorax was slicing the wind and cutting into a head sea. The waves were big enough to dip her bows low and I saw the jib’s foot come up dripping with water and there had been a time when I thought I’d never live to see that sight again. I was happy.