Lifeboat! (19 page)

‘Quite right, sir. Can you give me any sort of direction?'

‘Oh dear,' said the voice over the telephone, wavering a little now. ‘ I'm not very good at guessing directions. Sort of in the mouth of the Wash, I'd say.'

‘Right, sir. Where are you ringing from?'

‘The Visitors' Centre at the Nature Reserve.'

‘Would you be good enough to wait there for about ten minutes and I'll come down? If you could show me where you were when you saw the signal, it would give me a much better idea and be a great help.'

‘Yes, of course I'll wait.'

‘Thank you very much, sir.'

The call completed, Jack Hansard dialled the boathouse number.

‘Macready.'

‘Iain—I'm not sure, but we may have had our friend the hoaxer on the line again.'

Macready swore softly under his breath but listened intently whilst the coastguard continued. ‘Mind you, it is a bit different this time—he did give his name.' Swiftly Jack Hansard repeated all the information the caller had given him.

‘Mmmm—well, we can't ignore it, that's certain. Have you checked with St Botolphs?'

‘Not yet, but I will.'

‘I'll get on to Bill and we'll probably get the lads on standby.'

‘Right, Iain. I'll come back to you in a few minutes.'

Ten minutes later they were once again on the line to each other exchanging news.

Jack reported, ‘The Harbour Master reports that they've no vessels overdue, but there's one—a German coaster out of Gothenburg—the
Hroswitha
—expected on tonight's high water which has failed to report in recently. The last they heard was the ETA over fourteen hours ago. Since then, nothing. The Harbour Master's office have tried to raise her, but so far without success.'

‘It could be her in trouble then,' Macready murmured. ‘Bill has approved a launch and we're calling in the lads between us.'

‘I'm just off to the Point. The phone caller is supposed to be waiting at the Visitors' Centre. I'll radio you from there.'

As Macready turned from the phone he found Tim hovering at his elbow. ‘Away and fire two maroons, Tim.'

‘Right, Mr Macready.'

‘And Tim …'

The youth paused. ‘Yes?'

‘You're in the crew, son.'

For a fleeting moment before he ran to detonate the maroons, Tim's face was a picture of joy, the culmination of all his years of devotion.

He was to take part in a real service.

‘Thanks, Mr Macready.
Thanks!
'

Then he was off at a gallop across the road, down the bank and over the grass to the circular stone from where the maroons were fired. Seconds later the rocket shot up into the scudding sky and burst in a shower of green sparks. The high wind whipped them away and tossed them out to sea. A second rocket followed, but the signal was not so clear amidst the roar of the gale.

The centre of the depression which had begun its journey hundreds of miles away in the Atlantic now lay directly over the Saltershaven stretch of coastline.

As the lifeboat procession crossed the sand, Macready, his mouth tight, glanced at the sky. It was going to be very rough out at sea, he knew. The forecast had been bad enough and his own intuition feared even worse.

‘Mr Macready, Mr Macready,' a breathless voice hailed him and he turned to see Sandy running across the beach.

Macready stepped to one side to allow the lifeboat to continue its progress towards the sea. ‘What is it?'

Panting, Sandy said, ‘ Your Julie—and her friend—they're out in a day-boat. Thought you should know.' He nodded towards the sky, as knowledgeable in his way as Macready, as all these men who worked the sea. ‘Reckon we're in for a real blow.'

‘Aye,' Macready said shortly. ‘Thanks, Sandy. Would ya tell Jack Hansard for me. We're away on a service. A red flare has been sighted out in the Wash. We think it could be a coaster on its way to St Botolphs. If ye'd tell Jack and Bill Luthwaite, too, they'll—they'll keep an eye out.' There was an unusual catch in Macready's voice.

Never before had his own daughter been in trouble out at sea, needing his help perhaps. And now he was going several miles away to the aid of a foreign ship.

Unless, of course, this call was yet another cruel hoax.

On their way out to sea, Macready scanned the surface. There was nothing. No sign of a small craft. The wind was strengthening by the minute almost and the conditions at sea approximated to Force Ten on the Beaufort Scale with a wind speed in excess of fifty knots and waves in the open sea of over thirty feet from trough to overhanging crest.

Grim-faced Macready set a course towards the mouth of the Wash, every moment taking him further away from the area where Julie might be.

Jack Hansard entered the shop at the Visitors' Centre and approached a man leaning against the counter talking to the woman behind it.

‘I'm looking for a Mr Raymond Graham.'

The man straightened up. ‘That's me.'

‘Ah!' There was satisfaction in the coastguard's voice and he smiled at the stranger. ‘You don't know how relieved I am to see you waiting here, sir. We've launched the lifeboat on the strength of your call …'

For a moment the man looked worried. ‘Oh dear. I only hope I'm right.'

Jack Hansard reassured him. ‘No matter, sir, as long as you
genuinely
thought you saw something unusual out there, then we must take action. The snag is, you see, we've been having several hoax calls and from this area, and when your call came through—' Jack spread his hands—‘well, we just couldn't be sure, you see …'

The man's expression lightened. ‘Oh I understand …'

‘Excuse me,' the woman said, a little hesitantly. ‘ But I couldn't help overhearing. We had something happen here about two hours ago. A girl came rushing in here and phoned for the ambulance. She'd found a young lad on the marsh—just over the river—badly burned in the face. She reckoned him and a girl with him had been setting off flares.'

‘Really?' Jack was interested immediately. ‘Was it the girl with the boy who phoned?'

‘No—oh no, it was Mr Macready's daughter who telephoned.'

‘Julie? Julie Macready?'

‘That's right.'

‘Thanks very much, love.' He turned back to the man. ‘Let's go and take a look.'

Outside they climbed into the coastguard's landrover and Jack Hansard drove on to the bridge. Here he paused and glanced to right and left briefly, up and down river, hoping to see a sailing-dinghy that could be the one belonging to Julie Macready's friend, moored in the shelter of the River Dolan.

Several boats were moored there, but Jack knew this district well enough to recognise most of them as permanent moorings. Although he had not actually seen the boat he was now looking for, he knew roughly what to look for.

There was no sign of an unfamiliar day-boat of the right size anywhere along the river-bank.

He sighed inwardly. He had so hoped to be able to report back to a worried Macready that his daughter was safely sheltering down at the Haven.

Now he could not do so.

Surely they had not put out to sea again. Julie knew better than to do that in this weather.

‘I was over there—just near the mouth of the river,' the man, Raymond Graham, was saying. ‘And I saw a funny sort of light go up over there.' He was pointing in the direction, Jack knew, of the Lynn Well Lanby.

‘Thank you, sir. You've been a great help.'

‘Well—I do hope so. Is that all?'

‘I think so, sir. Do you want a lift back to town?'

‘No, it's quite all right, thanks, my car's here—on the car park.'

‘Right you are then, sir,' Jack said as the man got out of the cab. ‘ Many thanks.'

Jack Hansard turned the landrover and went along the river bank. He would just take one more look for Julie before he radioed Macready.

Out at sea, the going was very rough. Pete responded as a call came in from the coastguard.

‘… Reference sighting of red flares. This looks like a genuine distress signal. The caller was waiting at the Point and according to information he gave me, the signal appeared to be in the area of the Lynn Well Lanby.'

Pete made the usual reply and added, ‘… We are on course for the Lanby. Over.'

But Jack still had something else he must say and at his next words Pete turned towards his coxswain. ‘Jack must want a link call, Mac. He's asking for channel six.'

When all rescue broadcasting was carried out on channel sixteen, the request by the coastguard for channel six meant only one thing—he wanted a personal word with Macready.

‘Take over, will you, Fred, for a moment.' He handed over the wheel to his second coxswain and took the phone from Pete.

‘Hello, Jack. Iain here.'

‘Iain—there's something you should know.' Now Jack Hansard was speaking not as coastguard but to his friend, Iain Macready.

‘It seems as if the hoaxer may have been caught. About two hours ago an accident occurred on the marsh. A boy burnt in the face setting off a flare. And the call for the ambulance was made by your Julie. They must have put into the Haven and seen the accident. But, Iain, I'm sorry, the boat's not here now. I've had a real good look around. They must have put back out to sea. In view of the weather conditions, I'm going to report it officially. I'm so sorry …'

‘Thanks, Jack.'

Silently Macready handed the radio/ telephone back to Pete and took the wheel from Fred Douglas.

Macready glanced at Tim. For a moment he thought the boy was about to be sea-sick. Tim's face was surf-white. Tim—sea-sick? Impossible! Then the older man realised.

Tim had overheard the message from the coastguard and now he too knew that Julie Macready was perhaps somewhere out here in these swelling seas.

With the crack of a pistol shot another wire rope snapped and with a rumble that reverberated through the hull of the ship, a section of the deck cargo shifted and the coaster began to list to starboard. For a while the anchor held but as the weather deteriorated and the seas grew stronger with waves of twenty-five to thirty feet, the anchor could no longer hold the fully-laden coaster and, dragging her cable and now listing heavily to starboard, the
Hroswitha
lurched nearer and nearer to the sandbanks on the eastern coast of the Wash.

Droysen hacked at the ropes holding the section of packaged timber where two had already broken. Schlick had given him the order to let that section causing the trouble go overboard. The ship tossed about on the ocean like a cork, the seas washing constantly across the deck. Droysen paused, breathing hard and tried again. One rope gave and the package began to slide towards him. He stumbled backwards as the timber slithered into the sea. The boat pitched momentarily upright with the relief of some of the imbalance of weight, but there were still several packages left that needed to be ditched. Once again the ship settled back to her starboard list.

Schlick watched from the bridge as Droysen struggled forward again and raised his axe.

The deckhand who had fired the flares sidled into the bridge room. Schlick turned and barked an order, gesticulating towards the cargo deck. ‘Go and help the First Mate with the cargo.'

The deckie looked through the rain-washed screen and fear crossed his face. He shook his head. ‘No—no—I …'

‘Get down there,' Schlick roared and made as if to lunge towards the Turk. The deckie went.

Schlick watched as the deckhand made his way gingerly along the starboard side of the sloping deck, hanging on to the ropes holding the cargo, towards where Droysen was still hacking away with the axe. At the moment when the deckhand was almost up to the First Mate, the axe chopped the remaining strand of rope and another huge pack began to move towards the edge. The Turk—without the sense to keep out of the way until Droysen had completed his job and caught sight of him—had been trying to cross directly in front of the very pack of cargo Droysen was attempting to release. As the tightly packed timber moved, the deckie squealed as it lumbered towards him, catching him a glancing blow on the arm and—luckily for him—knocking him to one side on to the deck. It could so easily have carried him overboard with it as it plunged into the water. The ship rolled again and Droysen struggled towards the deckhand. The sea washed over the side, the waves running across the deck, slapping against the remaining packages and then receding, falling back into the sea and threatening to carry the Turk with them. Droysen made a grab at the man and dragged him away from the edge and towards the shelter of the superstructure and then up to the bridge.

If the deckhand had been wet before, he was now absolutely saturated. He was gibbering wildly in his native tongue and clutching his arm. Blood oozed from the wound and ran through his fingers.

‘What the hell …?' Schlick turned as Droysen and the deckhand lurched in through the doorway.

‘Give him a swallow of that brandy, Captain,' Droysen requested.

Schlick glanced at the wound on the man's arm. He could see the injury was serious—the man must obviously be in considerable pain. The Turk continued to jabber. As if in protest against the precious liquid's being given away, the pain in Schlick's stomach stabbed relentlessly.

‘Very well—but only a little.'

Droysen sat the deckhand in the chair near the radio, opened the locker and brought out the bottle and gave it to the Turk who uncorked it and raised it to his lips.

‘I must get back to the cargo deck,' Droysen muttered and once more disappeared out into the storm.

Gulp after gulp of the brandy was disappearing until Schlick shouted, ‘That's enough.' But still the deckhand continued to pour the spirit down his throat until incensed, his own pain almost forcing him to double up, Schlick lunged towards the Turk, his huge hands outstretched to grasp the brandy.