Authors: Hammond Innes
We drank in silence. I was thinking of those years abroad and how we’d longed for our homes. And now here I was alone in a room in a farmhouse and he was living a hermit’s life in the wheelhouse of a derelict L.C.T. I didn’t dare ask where the girl with the child in the photograph was. I could only suspect.
“You on holiday?” he asked suddenly.
“Not exactly,” I told him. “I’ve just been demobilised and I’m trying to adjust myself.”
He nodded. “To adjust oneself—that is the most difficult thing in the world to do when——” He laughed and it was not a pleasant laugh. “My life here is finished.” He gave a shrug to his shoulders. “England is dead to me. I’ve seen too much and done too much, and the roots I had are no longer there.” He raised his glass to me. “Here’s to the New Britain! May no one else find it as dull as I do.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. “Here, in this country, the world is in the making. We’re at the height of our power—the oldest, the most mature and the most stable of all nations of the world. We have a democracy that works and a people with a sense of responsibility to the world. And the world looks to us.”
“To us?” His brows lifted humorously. “Maybe it looks to Whitehall, to the men who have dug themselves in behind their mahogany desks and will fight to the last white man overseas—not us.”
“You’re bitter,” I told him.
“No, not bitter.” He said it thoughtfully as he refilled our glasses. “It’s just that I understand things more clearly than I did. I can understand the Twenties now—the period between the wars. They lost hope of a new world when they came back from the trenches and found
all the back row boys well entrenched behind red tape entanglements. They felt there was nothing that they could do but try to forget.”
I didn’t make a reply. There was a lot in what he said.
“In the words of the prophet—we’ve had it,” he said. “The generations that fought won’t rule this country for another twenty years. But—” and his eyes, grey flecked with green, looked straight into mine—“this country’s future isn’t going to be built here at home. We must go out and wrest our titles to greatness from the world as the Elizabethans did. I saw enough in the Middle East and Southern Europe to realise that the great trading days are by no means over. Now you were a landing craft skipper in the Navy. Did you ever think of the possibilities of L.C.T.s on the trade routes on enclosed seas like the Mediterranean?”
He drained the remainder of his whisky at a gulp. “I came down here to adjust myself, the same as you. I started at Bude and set out with a rucksack to walk to Land’s End. This is as far as I got. I heard about this old tub in a bar at Boscastle. And when I saw it, it was the end of my walking.
“She was full of water and sand—in a filthy state. And the locals, with true Cornish thoroughness for wrecking, had taken every movable fitting. There’s no compass, no ropes, no bunks, the wheel has gone and even the galley stove has been filched. But—and this is what the Navy people didn’t know—the skipper of this boat did a bloody good job with the engines. When I recce-ed the ship I found the engine-room full of sand and water. But under it all were great gobs of grease. The engines were thick with it. Now I’ve cleared the engine-room out and the old Paxmans look like new. I had them going a week ago and they ran perfectly. I’ve dug her out underneath with the help of a half-witted local boy and she’s O.K.”
“Just a moment,” I said. “Does this craft belong to you or are you just doing all this for the fun of it?”
“No, she belongs to me. I bought her for a song off
the Admiralty—they were selling her as scrap and part of the agreement is that I undertake to clear her from the beach. There’s nothing in the bill of sale to say that I can’t remove her intact and afloat—and that’s just what I intend to do. And there’s nothing to say I’ve got to break her up and sell her for scrap—which needless to say I don’t intend to do.
“Now then,” he said, “would you like to come in on this. I need somebody who understands these boats. I’ve done a good bit of bridging and suchlike commonsense engineering jobs. But I need somebody who knows more than I do to get her off these rocks without damaging her. And when she’s off, I need somebody to watch the refitting and to sail her. Have you got any money put by?”
“A little,” I said. His enthusiasm was infective.
“Right—now here’s a proposition. Apart from what I paid for her I’ve got about £1,500. That in my opinion is not enough capital to start out on. Your help can get her off. Then when she’s afloat put up what you can and we’ll form a private company with the ship as its assets, and we’ll split profits on say a 70-30 or 60-40 basis according to how much you put up. We can’t lose on it. Afloat she’ll be worth quite a bit in a foreign country.”
I helped myself to another Scotch whilst I thought it out. The question was, could she be got off and floated without tearing the hull to shreds? And how much would it cost to float her—a lot of tackle would be required.
“Let’s go out and have a look at her,” I suggested.
I was quite excited. It was a proposition that had definite possibilities.
The tide had ebbed back from the rocks and we could stand on the sand and get a comprehensive view of the position of the ship.
“I’ve thought of rigging hawsers to the rocks at each side of the entrance to the cove and winching,” he said. “But there’s that jagged rock by the stern—it’s the one
that did the only spot of damage to her hull, and she’s going to slide off her lodgment right on to it. I thought of trying to lift her off with hawsers slung to the cliff on either side, but they’d never stand the strain.”
“You’d never do it that way,” I told him. “You need a ramp and rollers if you’re going to have any chance of getting her off without damage.”
“And that would cost a packet.”
“Yes,” I said, “if you had to build the ramps. It would be a big concreting job and it would cost a lot.” My mind was suddenly made up. “How much were you reckoning to spend on floating her off?”
He shrugged his shoulders, his hands deep in his corduroys. “I reckoned it might cost all I had. So far, all I’ve put into her, except for the initial purchase, is my time and the cost of this boy whose been working with me. But I’m prepared to take a chance on all I have. It’s a gamble, but I’ve thought it out and I figure it’s worth it. That’s why, apart from your knowledge and experience, I need somebody with a little extra to put into the refitting.”
“All right,” I said. “Now supposing I said I think I can get her off without damage—would you be willing to form a private company on a fifty-fifty share basis, a proviso being that I undertake to float her and pay the cost of doing so. That’s my experience and naval contacts to offset your original idea and expense in purchasing it.”
He looked at me for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. We’ll call that a deal. And that calls for another whisky—we may as well finish the bottle.”
Well, it was settled there and then and we drew up a preliminary agreement embodying the undertakings on either side. And next day I took the train to Plymouth.
I hadn’t told him that all I possessed in the world did not amount to more than just over £500. I hadn’t told him how I was going to get the craft off. I didn’t know. I had bluffed him into thinking that I could do it. But could I? Supposing the Dockyards hadn’t got any L.S.T.
landing pontoons? I needed hawsers and a winch, too. Suppose they wouldn’t let me borrow them? And if I got them how was I to rig them?
There were so many problems to solve and I thought of nothing else as the train rolled its way across the Cornish moors and into Devon.
However, my luck was in. I discovered that a man I knew was connected with Admiralty stores. I entertained him to dinner that night. He was a lieutenant-commander now. When I’d known him in the Anzio days Slater had been one of the few regular skippers in the Combined Operations outfit. I told him the whole story.
But when I explained how I intended doing it, he shook his head. “Niente pontoons, chum,” he said. “They’re all out in the Pacific still. Doubt whether you’d find any at Portsmouth even. What about derricks? I’ve got some of those and masses of steel hawsers and winches I can lend you.”
“That’s going to be a hell of a job,” I said. “She’d most likely break her back on the rocks. Now with a pair of those pontoons and log rollers I reckoned I could have her off in no time.”
“Yes, chum, but I haven’t got any,” he said. “If I’d got ’em I’d let you have them—but I haven’t and that’s all there is to it.”
I felt depressed. Now that I was in danger of being unable to do what I had so glibly promised to do, it had suddenly become violently important. I arranged to come down the following morning to have a look round the yards for what I wanted and we got quietly drunk on rum and old memories of the Wavell and Montgomery campaigns.
The following morning I went all over the yards with him. Equipment of every kind was there. But no L.S.T. pontoons. I eventually decided on two small but powerfully built hand winches, two big steel jacks, six really strong steel girders twenty feet high, pulleys, chains, and great coils of wire hawser with blocks and tackles.
Slater had all the gear loaded on to an old barge.
“There’s an Admiralty tug going up to Cardiff tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll get her to tow it up. She should be off Boscastle about 10.00 hrs. the following morning. Get one of the motor fishing boats out and take the barge in to Boscastle. And remember—I want the barge and the gear back. I like helping my pals, but not to the extent of a court-martial.”
“You’ll get it back within the month,” I promised him. “And the old L.C.T. will be towing it.”
“Like to bet on it?” he said with a grin.
“No,” I told him. “But I’ll buy you the biggest dinner you’ve ever had in your life if I get her off.”
“That’s a date,” he said, shaking my hand. “Lots of frutti di mare, eh? Plenty lobster and Bifstek—doppio. Well, chum, I hope you do it—but I think you’ve taken on rather a big thing.”
That was my view, but I didn’t tell him so. I spent a sleepless night trying to visualise, step by step, the equipment I’d borrowed doing the job it had to do. The next morning I returned to Tintagel. I had a late lunch at the farm and then walked to Boscastle to arrange about the boat. By the time I got back it was late to go stumbling in the dark down to Bossiney, and I decided that at least I might as well have the pleasure of surprising Stuart with my borrowed tackle.
Sarah’s son, Mervin, was home that night, full of talk of the sale and the five calves he’d got. But mostly he talked of sheep. They had never had sheep on the farm and he had bought a dozen lambs. He argued that the price of wool was going up and sheep were a good investment. He wasn’t sure of himself and was trying to justify the purchase, which he described as a bargain that it was just foolish to miss.
I sat and smoked and enjoyed his enthusiasm, glad that I too had things to plan and work for. The atmosphere of the farm was less of memories and more of plans and hopes for the future.
Just as I was going to bed Sarah said with a little smile, “When are you moving down to Bossiney, Mr. David?”
I laughed. “How did you know?” I asked.
“Allow an old woman’s who reared three children her intuition,” she said. She tapped my arm with her knitting needles. “You wouldn’t have listened to Mervin’s blather with such entertainment if you hadn’t got plans of your own.”
I nodded. “I’m glad I came,” I told her. “It seems I, too, have hunches that sometimes work out. I’ll be moving down there in a day or two.”
I arranged for Mervin to call me when he rose the following morning and by seven-thirty I was striding along the road to Boscastle in the early sunlight. I sang nearly all the way. I was frankly excited. I hadn’t planned for myself like this for more than five years. Down the valley I caught a glimpse of the sea, blue and calm. High tide was twelve-forty. With luck the barge should be unloaded and safely moored in Boscastle shortly after midnight.
The narrow, twisting street was warm and bright in the sunlight as I came down into the valley. The long elbow of the inlet that was responsible for the village looked quiet and peaceful. Fishing boats, masts bare, were moored behind the mellow stone of the two thick sea walls. The girdling hills were a riot of colour. The green between the stone outcrops was tinged with the yellow of birds’-foot trefoil and early gorse flowers.
Down by the hard Mr. Garth was getting his boat ready. He was a man of about sixty with a weather-beaten, dour face and blue eyes beneath a dark cloth cap. “I’ve sent my nephew up to the head yonder to watch for the tug, Mr. Cunningham,” he said. “He’ll signal to Garge here when it’s sighted.” He indicated a big clumsy-looking man who grinned up at us from the engine hatch at the mention of his name. “Meantime the missus has a Cornish pasty she’d be glad for you to try and there’s a pint or two of home-brewed cider that would be the better for the drinking of it. The missus,” he added as we climbed from the boat, “is main proud of her pasties. So are all the women of Boscastle, for that matter.”
He led me up the hard to a little stone house set back in a garden of flowers and vegetables. “Yes,” I said, “I remember the Cornish pasties I had in Boscastle, though it is more than five years since I was here.”
“Aye.” He nodded and spat at a stone with precision. “Thee can’t beat Boscastle for pasties.”
In a cool stone-flagged room full of faded photographs, last war relics and polished Cornish stone we ate steaming pasties and drank rough cold cider out of glazed earthenware mugs. We were served by a little girl in pigtails tied with blue ribbon. “Thee was much talked about down at the Black Prince last night,” old Garth said. “When I told ’em wot it were you were after doing there were much shaking of heads.” He cackled. “But I were in Navy in last war and I said whatever they thought, I reckoned a Navy man could do it. I bet Ezra Hislop, who has a farm over by Trafalgar, five pund that you d do it before the autumn weather. Aye, an’ there’s witnesses to that. An’ there was other bets taken, too.”
“Well, I hope I don’t let you down, Mr. Garth,” I said. I was feeling uneasy.