Blue Ice

It was cold, sitting there at the wheel, and the time passed slowly. I was impatient to be out of the river. Gradually the lights of the docks and warehouses on either side thinned out until black areas of darkness marked open countryside and mudflats. We passed a big freighter moving slowly upstream. Her deck lights slid quickly by and in a few minutes she was swallowed up by the night. At full ahead we made a good eight knots. Add to that a four knot tide and we were going downstream at a fair rate. At a call from Dick, Wilson went below and returned with mugs of steaming coffee and sandwiches for Carter and myself. By eight we were running past Tilbury and Gravesend and half an hour later we could see the lights of Southend. We were out in the estuary now and the ship was beginning to show a bit of movement. The wind was south-east Kid piling up a short, steep sea that hissed angrily in the darkness i amp; it broke against our sides.

Dick joined me just as I picked up the Nore light, blinking steadily far ahead. ‘Dirty looking night,’ he said. ‘When are you getting the sails on her?’

‘We’ll run out to the Nore,’ I answered. ‘Then we’ll be able to steer our course with a good reaching wind. How’s everything below?’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Dahler went straight to bed. Said he’s a bad sailor. Wright and Jorgensen are talking skiing over a bottle of Scotch. And the girl’s changing her clothes. What about tonight — are we splitting into watches? Wright’s done some sailing and Jorgensen says he can handle small boats.’

That was better than I’d hoped. The boat was an easy one to handle, and the four of us could have managed her quite comfortably. But if there were much sail changing to do, we’d soon tire ourselves out and then we’d have to heave-to for sleep. And I was anxious to get across to Norway as quickly as possible. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘We’ll split into watches. You take the starboard watch, Dick, with Carter, Wright and Jorgensen. For the port watch I’ll have Wilson and the girl.’

That choice of watches was made without thought. Yet it was of vital importance to what followed. Almost any other split-up would have made the difference. It would have put Jorgensen in my watch. But how was I to know then the violence that would be bred in the close confines of the ship.

I handed the wheel over to Dick and went into the chartroom to work out our course. I read the messages through and transmitted them. They were simple notifications of departure to Norway — Jill Somers to her father. Dahler to his hotel and to the London and Oslo offices of Det Norske Staalselskab. When I emerged I found Wright, Jorgensen and the girl all sitting in the cockpit. They were talking about sailing. The Nore Tower was quite close now, illuminating the ship each time the powerful beams swept over us.

‘Take over the wheel, will you, Miss Somers,’ I said.

‘Keep her head to the wind.’ As soon as she had relieved Dick, I called to Carter and we got the mainsail up. The canvas cracked as the boom slatted to and fro in the weird red and green glow of the navigation lights on either side of the chartroom. As soon as peak and throat purchases were made fast and the weather backstay set up I had the engine stopped and I ordered Jill Somers to steer up Barrow Deep on course north fifty-two east. The mainsail filled as the ship heeled and swung away. In an instant we had picked up way and the water was seething past the lee rail. By the time we had set jib, stays’l and mizzen the old boat was going like a train, rocking violently as she took the steep seas in a corkscrew movement that brought the water gurgling in the scuppers at each plunge.

I sent Dick and his watch below. They were due on at midnight. Wilson was stowing gear down below. I was left alone with the girl. Her hand was steady on the wheel and she eased the boat over each wave with a sure touch, keeping steadily to her course. The light from the binnacle was just sufficient to show her features in silhouette against the howling darkness of the sea. Her fair hair blew free about her head. She was wearing a polo-necked sweater under a rainproof windbreaker. ‘You’re quite at home on a ship,’ I said.

She laughed. And by the way she laughed I knew she was enjoying the wind and the feel of the ship under her. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve done any sailing,’ she said. And then a shade wistfully: ‘Nearly ten years.’

‘Ten years? Where did you learn?’ I asked.

‘Norway,’ she answered. ‘My mother was Norwegian. We lived in Oslo. Daddy was a director of one of the whaling companies at Sandefjord.’

‘Is that where you first met Farnell?’ I asked.

She looked up at me quickly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I told you. I met him when I was working for the Kompani Linge.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘Why do you suppose poor Mr Dahler queried George’s death?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. It was a point that had been puzzling me. ‘Why do you speak of him as — poor Mr Dahler?’