Isvik (33 page)

‘What about Carlos?' I asked.

‘He'll stay below.'

‘You mean he comes with us?'

He turned away, but I thought I saw his left eyelid flicker as he said, ‘Remember – keep yer mouth shut.'

I didn't bother with the engine, and as I was settling myself to the oars, I caught the flash of a torch from the beach. He had said midnight so he was dead on time.

Glancing over my shoulder, as I pulled into the pathway of open water between the kelp, I saw his figure standing solitary in the moonlight. There was nobody with him, but he must have had help getting his gear down to the beach, for there was quite a considerable pile of it stacked beside him.

He greeted me by name as though we were old friends, apologised for having caused us to detour south to the Beagle Channel and hoped we had had a comfortable passage. ‘What was the wind like?'

‘All right,' I said as we began humping his gear into the boat.

‘And the ship? What is she called –
Isvik
? How was
Isvik
?'

‘Okay.'

‘A good sailer? No breakings?'

‘No.'

The moon was only just risen, a baleful orb of orange red that peered at us beneath a ruler-straight line of low cloud, casting a livid light that made his face look older. Or was it strain? I flicked my torch on to him, then on the baggage. There were half a dozen cases that looked as though they were plastic. ‘Put the torch out!'

‘Why?'

‘Somebody may see. Put it out!'

I started to tell him he didn't have to worry, that the area was deserted, but then I thought better of it. The cases had buff-coloured labels stuck across their tops. I was just moving forward to examine one of them more closely when the torch was whipped out of my hand and switched off. But not before I had noticed the label on one of the cases was torn to reveal the upper half of some stencilled lettering – SEMTEX. Also the letters D A N and what looked like I V E S.

I had also caught sight of his face, and though it was only a glimpse, I had a distinct impression of tiredness round the eyes and the skin had a muddy look. But he still managed to look elegant, even in anorak and sea boots.

We finished loading the cases and his gear into the inflatable, and while hauling it out into water deep enough to float it, a wave slopped over the top of my sea boots. The water was ice cold. I scrambled in, picked up an oar and began to punt our way out through the kelp.

It was hard work getting out to the ship for the wind had risen again so that the big Seagull was slamming us into a steep, white-capped sea. It was a wet ride, with the ship riding stern-on to us in silhouette against that low band of livid light. As soon as we were alongside Connor-Gómez leapt on board, not waiting for my orders, not even taking the painter with him. I had to toss the stern rope up and a wave slopped over the fabric side as the boat swung round. Iain was busy greeting him and it was Iris who made fast. Carlos was down below, of course, and Andy busy talking again to a ‘ham' he had contacted on the Falklands.

Standing there in the bouncing inflatable, clinging to the ship's rail, I heard Iain inviting the man below for a welcome-aboard drink. ‘A splendid idea,' I called out as they started to move aft to the wheelhouse door, ‘but first let's get the gear on board.'

Connor-Gómez turned immediately. He had caught the note of censure in my voice. ‘So sorry, my friend. Of course.' He was smiling, the tired eyes crinkling, all the charm switched on so that his face was transformed, the mask of youthfulness back in place. Go-Go suddenly appeared to give a hand. They met at the rail and I saw him check, his face hardening abruptly, his body coming erect as though standing on tiptoe, racial dominance in every line. And then, as I introduced them, he smiled and I saw a touch of the devil I had seen in Carlos.

‘Her husband, Andy, is our radio operator,' I said quickly, for I had seen her stiffen, the eyes dilating, the nostrils flaring. The instant flash of sexual awareness that passed between them was like an electric spark, and she was hating herself for it. There was something else, too, something age-old, primitive even, her body gone so taut I could see her trembling. And all the time he smiled, savouring the moment. He held out his hand. ‘So we sail into the ice together, Mrs Galvin.'

‘I'll call Andy.' She turned quickly away, and as she hurried to the wheelhouse, she said to Iris, ‘We'll need everybody on deck to stow the inflatable and lash it down.'

We had the welcoming drink in the main saloon, a bottle of champagne Iain said he had brought back with him specially for the occasion. ‘To our voyage.' Ángel – it was Ángel now he was one of us – raised his glass. ‘And to our ship's company.' He smiled first at Iris, then at Go-Go, pointedly toasting the women. His features had smoothed out and there was colour in his cheeks. He looked suddenly handsome again, almost debonnaire.

The bottle empty, Iain gave me a nod and took Ángel aft to show him his quarters. I changed quickly into dry socks and followed Andy up to the wheelhouse. Iris was already there, the engine ticking over and Nils up forward starting to take the slack up on the winch as we motored gently into the wind. She looked at me, a nervous smile on that full mouth of hers, but the light of excitement in her eyes. ‘Well, this is it, Pete.'

I nodded, butterflies flickering in my stomach as I asked Andy for the latest forecast. ‘Wind,' he said. ‘Gale force. But decreasing shortly after dawn – perhaps.' His voice was tense, a cover I thought for nervousness. Then, on a note of almost forced gaiety, he said, ‘But I've just got an ice report you'll like, mate. I been talking to an ice-breaker down by the BAS base at Halley Bay. They report they're in open water and they've got print-outs from the Met. station at MPA of sat-pics that show a line of open water extending half-way round the southern end of the Weddell Sea.'

‘What's an ice-breaker doing down there?' I asked.

‘Thickness of ice tests. The SPRI – that's the Scott Polar Research Institute – have been carrying out tests in the Arctic for some years. Now BAS are doing it down here in the Antarctic.'

‘With what result? Do they think it's melting?'

‘Correct. According to the sparks feller on
Polarstern
– that's the ice-breaker, not one of yours, German, a big 'un, too – they've been running tests for several years using sonar buoys. Testing for the effects of the destruction of the ionosphere and the hole in the ozone layer. The ice is thinner than they thought. In fact, he says the fellers at British Antarctic Survey's Halley base reck'n it won't be all that long before the Weddell Sea becomes open to the fishing fleets, the eastern side of it anyway.' He gave a little laugh. ‘But that's for the future, mate. Right now we're dealing with the present and it looks like a dirty night.'

‘But you say we could have it fine tomorrow when we'll be clear of the Beagle Channel and out of the lee of the land meeting the big seas that have rounded the Horn.' I said it casually as though I were referring to a Channel crossing, but that wasn't at all how I felt, for this would be a close encounter with the Horn. Very different to the Whitbread when we had been thundering along the 57th parallel, virtually in the middle of the Drake Strait.

‘Yep, they'll have the whole weight of a globe-circling ocean behind them.' He laughed a little wildly. ‘Guess I'll go to my scratcher, get some shut-eye while I can.'

I told him to stay and give me a hand with the squares'ls. The wind was west-sou'west, the direction indicator in front of me swinging between 220 degrees and 240 degrees. With Iris on the helm, both sails went up in quick time, and immediately afterwards Andy dived down the for'ard hatch so that after I had relieved Iris I was alone at the wheel. I cut the engine and suddenly everything was quiet, only the sound of the bows slicing through the water. I switched to autopilot and reached for the log to write up the time and position at which I had shut down the engine. ‘Where do you anchor next?' It was Ángel peering over my shoulder at the chart.

I finished my entry and shut the log. ‘We don't.' I saw the surprise on his face, the look of shock almost, and felt pleased. ‘Next stop is the Ice Shelf at the bottom of the Weddell Sea.' I got Chart 3176 out of the drawer and opened it on the chart table. It covered almost all of the Weddell Sea, including part of that finger of Antarctica which thrusts north towards Graham Land and the Horn. ‘Now that we're on our way perhaps you'd pencil in the position you want us to head for.'

He didn't say anything, just standing there beside me, breathing rather deeply as he stared down at the chart. ‘I did not understand you would be leaving like this, so immediately.'

‘Ice reports indicate the pack is melting early.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘If we had left direct from Punta Arenas –'

‘Of course.' He straightened up. ‘You are in charge of the sailing, I understand. When do you want me on watch?'

‘After breakfast. You'll then be able to get used to handling the ship in daylight before you face a night watch.'

He nodded. ‘Then I think I go to my bunk now.'

I held a pencil out to him. ‘Mark in our destination and the position of the
Santa Maria
, will you, please. Then I can work out a rough ETA, read up on the ice conditions again and have another look at Shackleton's
South
before we're out of the Beagle Channel and into the rough stuff.'

‘The rough stuff! It will be bad you think?'

‘We'll be jumping off the deep end as far as our sea legs are concerned.' I tried to make my voice sound casual, but my imagination was leaping ahead to the moment when we were out of the Beagle Channel, facing the tail end of the gale that was forecast, and I had to decide how close in to Isla de los Estados and the toe of Tierra del Fuego I dared go. ‘The position,' I said. ‘I need to know now while conditions are quiet.'

But he shook his head, backing away from me. ‘I get some sleep now.'

‘Don't you know the position? Is that it?'

‘Of course I know the position … But that chart … It does not cover the extreme south-west corner of the Weddell Sea. So I cannot mark it in for you. Tomorrow perhaps. You find me a chart that covers the whole area … Now I am tired. I don't have much sleep for several days. Okay?' And with a smile and wave of his hand he disappeared below.

A blip showed on the radar, in the passage north of Piedra that we would be taking to Cabo San Pio and our entry into the Southern Ocean. I watched for a while until I had confirmed it as a vessel steaming towards us, then I told Nils, who was in the helmsman's chair, to wake me at 03.15 and curled up under a blanket on the couch at the side of the wheelhouse. I was thinking about Ángel's evasiveness over the position of the wreck, his reaction to our quick departure, and about those cases. I heard the sails banging as a gust came in from the beam, wondered whether I should get up and trim them, and the next thing I knew Nils was shaking me. ‘A quarter after three, Pete. That ship very close now. Green to green, ja?'

She passed us at a distance of about four hundred metres, the sound of her engines coming to us quite loud across the water. She was a medium-sized tanker, her lights blurred by a rain squall. I stayed awake until Andy relieved Nils and we were into the passage between the island and the Argentine mainland, then I went back to my couch, telling him to wake me when we were approaching Cabo San Pio, or when Iain relieved him, whichever was sooner.

In the event it was the violence of the movement that woke me, the rolling gradually becoming so bad that I had to get up and rig the canvas leeboard to stop myself being pitched on to the deck. The first pale streak of a sickly dawn showed over the bows. We were coming out of the Beagle Channel now and already beginning to feel the effect of the gale building up round the Wollaston group of islands that terminate in the Horn. By the time Iain came on watch it had become very rough indeed. Andy and I got into our oilskins, took down the upper squares'l and hoisted the largest of our three storm jibs to steady her. Water was beginning to surge for'ard along the deck and we could hear the grumbling roar of breaking seas above the scream of the wind. It would be bad off Cabo San Pio, much worse probably when we reached Los Estados island and San Juan, the final tip of South America and our point of departure.

I warned Andy he was on call and to keep his oilskins on. He was pale and I wondered whether he suffered from seasickness. The movement was unpleasant and I was beginning to feel a little queasy myself. ‘You all right?' I asked Iain.

‘Aye. The good Lord gifted me with a cast-iron stomach.' He smiled at me, a good colour in his cheeks as he sat, seemingly relaxed, in the swivel chair, his hands holding the wheel, not tight, but firmly. ‘What about ye?'

‘Okay,' I said, though I wasn't all that sure. ‘What's in the cases we brought off from that beach?'

‘Why d'ye ask?'

‘Semtex is an explosive, isn't it? The stuff the IRA get from Czechoslovakia. One of those cases –'

His hand banged down on the wooden ledge of the console. ‘I told ye. Keep yer thoughts to yerself. Ye're the one person –' He checked himself. ‘Nils had been paintin' the back of the for'ard heads. Ah've slapped some of that on it. Ah don't mind ye askin' me questions. Ah reck'n Ah know ye now. Yes, of course it's Semtex, and there's a case of detonators, too. We may need to blast a way out of the ice and Ah couldn't bring the stuff down through Chile.'

He checked the swing of the bows as a breaker went surging beneath us, slamming the ship violently to port. He was a quick learner, or else at some time in his chequered career he had handled a vessel in rough seas before. ‘Remember what Ah said – keep yer eyes open and yer mouth shut.' Another breaker, white water all along the deck and the bows swinging. But he anticipated it this time and checked the swing almost before it had begun. ‘Gettin' a wee bit frisky, isn't she?'