Maddon's Rock (27 page)

Below decks everything was chaos. Everything that could had broken loose. Bunks had been wrenched from the wall, lamps smashed, crockery broken, lockers thrown open. Clothes and books lay strewn on the floor, all mixed up with provisions, tins, broken bottles, smashed crockery. But it was dry. The hatches had held and the
Eilean Mor’s
stout timbers had stood the strain. We were afloat and dry. Only the engine-room was half flooded with water that had come in down the companion ladder from the wheelhouse.

We none of us seemed much the worse for our experience. Our cuts attended to and dry clothed, we left Mac to clean up his engine-room and got the dinghy over the side. By a miracle it had not been damaged. First we took a second anchor out, thus securing the
Eilean Mor
fore and aft. Then we rowed over to the
Trikkala
.

The stern was only just in the water. The waves broke against the lower blades of the twin screws. The rudder was red with rust. So was the hull. She had bedded firmly down in the shingle beach and had a list of about fifteen degrees to starb’d. The incredible thing was that she hadn’t broken her back nor did any of her plates appear to be damaged. She might have been laid up on a slipway. From her bows two hawsers anchored her to the low cliffs that edged the beach. Aft, two more hawsers gripped her by the stern; one was fixed to the rocks of a small reef that curved out like a breakwater from the southern shoulder of the island, the other ran into the sea to an anchor.

We rowed round the stern. The sides were sheer. No ropes hung down. To go into the beach meant risking the dinghy. We went back to the
Eilean Mor
for a light line. With this over the stern rails by the rusty three-inch gun I clambered up on to the deck. There was rust everywhere. It came away in flakes under my feet. Nevertheless, the deck plates seemed solid enough below the rust. Just by the bridge on the starb’d side I found a Jacob’s ladder heaped up and fixed to the rail. I took this aft and soon we were all on deck.

“Wonder if the silver’s still there?” Bert said as he clambered over the rail.

That’s what I was wondering. We went for’ard to the after-deckhousing.

“Never fort I’d see this beastly guardroom again,” Bert said. There was no padlock on the door. We put our weight against it and to my surprise it moved. We strained at the rusty edge of it and gradually it slid back. Inside were the cases of bullion just as we had left them. Our hammocks were still slung from case to case. Bits of our clothing were scattered about. “Doesn’t look as though anyone’s been here,” Jenny said.

“’Ullo, ’ullo,” exclaimed Bert, who had gone right in. “Somebody’s bin muckin’ aba’t wiv these ’ere cases. Look at this one, Jim. Top ripped right off. An’ that wasn’t the one me an’ Sills opened.” He flung the top off. “That’s queer,” he said. “They ain’t taken nuffink. Look—there’s one o’ the smaller boxes opened and the bars still there. You’d ’ave fort old ’Alsey would ’ave ’ad the door sealed up before they left, wouldn’t you, Jim? I mean, ’ere’s the ol’ bright an’ shinin’ all on its lonesome an’ not even a padlock on the jolly door.”

“There aren’t many burglars operating in these latitudes, Bert,” I reminded him.

“Oh, you know wot I mean,” he said. “Sailors might land ’ere an’ ave’ a look ra’nd the ship fer wot they could pinch—food an’ clothes an’ things. If the door were fastened they wouldn’t bother aba’t it. But left open like this—why, hits an open hinvitation ter loot, that’s wot it is.”

I must say I agreed. It seemed incredible that Halsey should be so careless. I went out and had another look at the door. There were two catches on the outside made for padlocks. But there were no padlocks. And then I saw clean metal showing here and there at the edge below the rust. I rubbed the brown flakes away. Below the red powder I saw distinctly the marks of a cold chisel. “Come and look at this, Bert,” I said. Those marks ran all round the door. The metal at the edge seemed blistered and lumpy.

“Weldin’,” Bert said. “That’s wot it is.”

“You mean Halsey had the door welded before he left?” Jenny asked.

“You bet ’e did, Miss.”

“Then who’s broken it open?”

“Yes,” I added. “Who’s broken it open and not taken a single bar of silver?” It puzzled me. However, the silver was there. That was the main thing. “Not much use worrying about it now,” I added. “Anything might have happened whilst those five crooks were on board.”

“Yes, but to weld it up and then laboriously chisel it open. It doesn’t make sense.” Jenny was staring at the door with a puzzled frown.

“Come on,” I said. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s take a look round the rest of the ship while it’s still light. That door’s a mystery we shall probably never solve.”

We went for’ard then to the bridge accommodation. It was strange walking along the
Trikkala’s
deck all red with rust and tilted at an angle. I climbed up on to the bridge itself. Everything was orderly as though the ship were still afloat, only time had left its mark in rust and a thick rime of salt. There was even a pair of binoculars in the cubby-hole where the charts were kept. I looked for’ard to the bows and the derelict-looking three-inch gun perched there like a relic of a long-forgotten war. An old tarpaulin was slung from the derricks. It undulated in the wind. Beyond those high bows, the island sloped up from the fringe of shallow cliffs. There was no sign of vegetation. It was all rock, furrowed, but smooth as though the stone were precious and it had been polished on an emery wheel. It was as black and sleek and wet as it had looked through the glasses when we first sighted it. A shiver ran down my spine. It was the most desolate place I’d ever seen. Suppose we couldn’t get out through the gap again? To be marooned in this unspeakable desolation—it would be a living hell.

Down in the cabins everything seemed neat and orderly. There were no signs of a hurried departure. I went into Halsey’s cabin and rummaged through the drawers. Papers, books, old periodicals, a litter of charts and atlases,
dividers, rulers, two shelves of plays including a copy of Shakespeare and Bradley’s
Shakespearean Tragedies
—but not a letter, not a photograph, not a single object that might give a clue to the man’s history.

Jenny called out to me. I went to the door. “Come here, Jim,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

She and Bert were in the officers’ mess room. “Look,” she said as I entered. She was pointing to the table. It was still laid—just for one. There were tea things on a tray, an open tin of oleo margarine, ship’s biscuits on a plate, a pot of paste and a hurricane lamp. “Almost as though somebody were living here,” she said. “And look, there’s an oil stove, and a duffle coat hung over the back of the chair. I—I don’t think it’s very pleasant wandering around a deserted ship. It always seems as though there must be life on board. I remember going over one of the freighters laid up in the Clyde when I was a kid. It—scared me quite a bit. As though I oughtn’t to be there, prying into the secret life of a ship with all its old memories.”

I went over to the table. There was milk in the jug. It looked all right. But then it was cold enough in these latitudes for things to keep indefinitely. The paste was all right too. And then I saw the watch and stopped with the pot of paste still in my hand. “Jim! What are you staring at?” Jenny’s voice was startled, almost scared.

“That watch,” I said.

“Wot aba’t it?” Bert asked. “Blimey! Ain’t yer never seen a pocket watch before?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I never saw one that ran for over a year without being wound.” It was an ordinary service watch. Rankin’s perhaps. The little second hand jerked steadily round. The others peered at it. Nobody spoke whilst the watch ticked off a whole minute.

“You’re right,” said Bert at length. “It’s as though somebody had just left it there. Fair gives yer the creeps, don’t it. D’yer fink the free of us clumpin’ ra’nd the room could ’ave started it off?”

“No, I don’t,” I replied. My voice sounded unnaturally
sharp. “This ship has been battered by waves all the winter.”

“Then, how can it——” Jenny’s voice trailed away. “For God’s sake, Jim,” she added, suddenly clutching my arm, “let’s find out whether there is someone on this ship. This table—laid for one like that—as soon as I saw it, I felt——” She hesitated. “Well, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.”

“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s go and have a look at the galley. If there is anyone on board, he’s clearly someone who needs to eat. The galley will tell us.”

We went down the long passageway. This was the way I had come for cocoa and my chats with the cook. The passageway had always been hot and pulsing with the throb of engines. But now it was cold and dank. The gratings that let on to the engine-room were dark and lifeless. The galley door was open. The air seemed warmer and there was a smell of food. Something moved on the cook’s bed.

“What’s that?” Jenny cried.

“I swear I saw somefink move then,” Bert said.

Our nerves reacted on each other. Twenty-three men—the crew of this ship—had been murdered. I told myself not to be a fool. Jenny’s fingers dug into my arm. Two pin points of luminous light stared at us from the dark recess beneath the bunk—two green eyes.

We stood petrified, staring at those eyes. They moved. And then out from underneath the bunk walked the cook’s cat—the tortoise-shell that had jumped out of the boat just before it was launched. It came stalking across the room towards us, its soft pads making no sound, tail stiff and waving gently from side to side, its green eyes fixed unwinkingly upon us. I felt the hair creep along my scalp. I remembered how the cat had struggled and clawed at the cook. It had
known
that boat was going to sink. Then the thing was rubbing itself against my legs, purring as it had done when the cook had sat in that chair over there, stroking it with his thick, fleshy fingers.

I took a grip on myself. The cat couldn’t wind up a
watch. It might eat fish paste, but not ship’s biscuits. I went over to the galley stove and felt the top of it. The iron was still warm and when I raked at it, cinders glowed red in the grate.

“Somebody’s still on board,” I said.

“Still on board,” Jenny echoed. “But, Jim, for over a year?”

“It’s the same person that burst open the bullion room door. Don’t you see—that’s why none of the silver’s missing. He couldn’t take it away because he’s still here.”

“It’s almost incredible that anyone should be living on this derelict,” she said.

“Yes, but not impossible,” I pointed out. “There’s food and shelter here. And water—that’s why that tarpaulin is slung from the derricks, to catch rain water.”

“D’yer fink they left ’im be’ind as a sort of caretaker.” Bert suggested. He made a face. “Blimey! Nice sort o” job that is. I wouldn’t stay a’t ’ere on me Jack Jones—no jolly fear I wouldn’t.”

“He’s probably some poor devil who’s been shipwrecked,” I said. “Managed to get in through the reef and been here ever since. At any rate, that explains why the cat’s still alive.”

“It’s—horrible,” Jenny murmured.

“Yes, it’s not very nice,” I agreed. I saw she was worried. I took her arm. “An abandoned ship always seems a bit uncanny—especially when there’s someone on it and you don’t know who. Come on, the sooner we find him the better.” I turned to Bert. “You go aft,” I said. “We’ll search for’ard.”

Bert’s eyes looked startled. “Wot—go aft by meself?” he cried. “Why ’e may ’ave gone barmy. A year alone wiv ’alf a million in silver—’nuff ter make anyone go screwy.”

I laughed. But it wasn’t a very assured laugh. “Well, just call to him,” I suggested. “Make friendly noises.”

“Oh, orl right,” he grumbled. “But if I start ’ollering, you come quick. I ain’t a ‘trick-cyclist’ an’ I ain’t got a strait-waistc’t wiv me.”

Jenny and I searched from the engine-room for’ard through the crew’s quarters and the bridge accommodation to the peak. It was a dismal business. To light us we had a hurricane lamp. Strange shadows flitted in the dark recesses of the silent engine-room, along the deserted passageways and in the corners of the cabins.

We were just emerging from Number One hold when Bert hailed us from the after deck. “I found ’im, Jim,” he shouted.

Dusk was beginning to close in around the ship. The wind was rising fast and the noise of it whining through the superstructure of the ship was audible above the everlasting roar of the waves along the reefs. Spray drifted against our faces, carried right across the island from the waves breaking against the cliffs to the west of it. Bert came hurrying forward. Behind him was a short, dark-haired man in blue serge trousers and a seaman’s jersey. He hung back. He seemed scared of us, like a wild thing that is shy and yet driven forward by curiosity. “’Ere we are,” said Bert as he came up to us. “Man Friday ’isself, on’y he’s white. Found ’im ’idin’ amongst the rudder gear.”

“Poor fellow,” Jenny said. “He looks scared—like a badger I once saw trapped in a pig stye.”

“How do you come to be on this ship?” I asked. And then when he did not reply, I said, “What’s your name?”

“Yer want ter talk slow,” Bert put in. “’E understands English orl right, but ’e don’t speak it very well. ’E’s a furriner, if yer ask me.”

“What is your name?” I asked again, slowly this time.

His lips moved, but the only sound that came was a sort of grunt. He was not tall, about Bert’s height. His face was lined and leathery. It had that tired, grey colour that goes with much suffering. His mouth kept opening and shutting in a violent effort to become articulate. It was horrible to watch him fighting down his fear in that dismal half light. “Zelinski,” he said suddenly. “Zelinski—that is my name.”

“How is it that you are on the
Trikkala
?” I asked trying to phrase the question simply.

His eyebrows jerked up. His brows wrinkled in three tiers of deep furrows. “Plees? I not understood. It is difficult. I am alone too long. I forget my own language. I am here—oh, I have lost my memory.” He searched feverishly through his pockets and brought out a small pocket diary. He flicked the pages over in nervous haste. “Ah, yes—I arrive here on 10th March, 1945. That is one year, one month, no?” He peered forward at us in sudden eagerness. “You will take me wiz you, yes?