Wrath of the Lion

The masthead light swung rhythmically from side to side as the swell started to roll beneath them and spray scattered against the window. A couple of points to starboard the red and green navigation lights of a steamer were clearly visible a mile out to sea. Mallory reduced speed to ten knots and they ploughed forward into the darkness, the sound of the engines a muted throbbing on the night air.

He grinned at her. ‘Nothing much wrong there. With any kind of luck we should have a clear run.’

‘When do you want me to take over?’

He shrugged. ‘No rush. Get some sleep. I’ll call you when I feel tired.’

The door banged behind her and a small trapped wind whistled round the wheelhouse and died in a corner. He pulled the hinged seat down from the wall, lit a cigarette and settled back comfortably, watching the foam curl along the prow.

This was the sort of thing he looked forward to on a voyage. To be alone with the sea and the night. The world outside retreated steadily as Foxhunter moved into the darkness and he started to work his way methodically through his briefing from beginning to end, considering each point carefully before moving on to another.

It was in recalling that de Beaumont had been in Indo-China that he remembered that Raoul Guyon had been there also. Mallory frowned and lit another cigarette. There might be a connection, although Adams hadn’t said anything about such a possibility. On the other hand, Guyon hadn’t been a Viet prisoner, which made a difference. One hell of a difference.

He checked the course, altering it a point to starboard, and settled back again in the seat, turning the collar of his reefer jacket up around his face. Gradually his mind wandered away on old forgotten paths and he thought of people he had known, incidents which had happened, good and bad, with a sort of measured sadness. His life seemed to be like a dark sea rolling towards the edge of the world, hurrying him to nowhere.

He checked his watch, and found, with a sense of surprise that it was after midnight. The door opened softly, coinciding with a spatter of rain on the window, and Anne Grant came in carrying a tray.

‘You promised to call me,’ she said reproachfully. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I wakened and saw the time. You’ve been up here a good four hours.’

‘I feel fine,’ he said. ‘Could go on all night.’

She placed the tray on the chart table and filled two mugs from a covered pot. ‘I’ve made tea. You didn’t seem to care for the coffee at supper.’

‘Is there anything you don’t notice?’ he demanded.

She handed him a mug and smiled in the dim light. ‘The soldier’s drink.’

‘What are you after?’ he said. ‘The gory details?’

She pulled down the other seat and handed him a sandwich. ‘Only what you want to tell me.’

He considered the point and knew that, as always, a partial truth was better than a direct lie. ‘I was kicked out in 1954.’

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘My pay didn’t stretch far enough.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it is. I was in charge of a messing account and borrowed some cash to tide me over. Unfortunately the auditors arrived early that month. They usually do in cases like mine.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said deliberately.

‘Suit yourself.’ He got to his feet and stretched. ‘She’s on automatic pilot, so you’ll be all right for a while. I’ll be up at quarter to four to change course.’

She sat there looking at him without speaking, her eyes very large in the half-light, and he turned, opened the door and left her there.

He went down to the cabin and flopped on his bunk, staring up at the bulkhead through the darkness. There had been women before, there always were, but only to satisfy a need, never to get close to. That had been the way for a long time and he had been content. Now this strange, quiet girl with her cropped hair had come into his life and quietly refused to be pushed aside. His last conscious thought was of her face glowing in the darkness, and she was smiling at him.

* * *

He was not aware of having slept, only of being awake and looking at his watch and realising with a sense of shock that it was half-three. He pulled on his jacket and went on deck.

There was quite a sea running and cold rain stung his face as he walked along the heaving deck and opened the glasspanelled door of the wheelhouse. Anne Grant was standing at the wheel, her face disembodied in the compass light.

‘How are things going?’ he asked.

‘I’m enjoying myself. There’s been a sea running for about half an hour now.’

He glanced out of the window. ‘Likely to get worse before it gets better. I’ll take over.’

She made way for him, her soft body pressing against his as they squeezed past each other. ‘I don’t think I could sleep now even if I wanted to.’

He grinned. ‘Make some more tea, then, and come back. Things might get interesting.’

He increased speed a little, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and after a while she returned with the tea. The wheel kicked like a living thing in his hands and he strained his eyes into the grey waste of the morning.

The sea grew rougher, waves rocking Foxhunter from side to side, and again Mallory increased speed until the prow seemed to lift clean out of the water each time a wave rolled beneath them.

Half an hour later they raised Alderney and he became aware of that great tidal surge that drives in through the Channel Islands, raising the level of the water in the Golfe de St Malo by as much as thirty feet.

He altered course for Guernsey and asked Anne to get the forecast on the radio in the saloon. She took her time over it and when she came back she carried more tea and sandwiches on a tray.

‘It’s pretty hopeful,’ she said. ‘Wind moderating, rain squalls dying away.’