Ancient Sunlight

By Peter Rothwell

Throughout his childhood and adolescence Willie Maddison has always felt himself to be a misfit. He has never known a mother's love nor felt any affection from a father who blames his son for his wife's death in child-birth. The outbreak of war in 1914 gives him the chance to escape the suffocating constraints of his home life and he enlists in the army. It is in the trenches that at last he finds comradeship and a sense of purpose and experiences events that will change his life forever.

On Christmas Eve, 1914 a spontaneous truce breaks out along a number of sectors of the front. The guns fall silent and carols can be heard coming from the German trenches. After a time, men from the opposing armies begin to venture forth into No Man's Land. The opportunity is taken to bury the dead and joint services are held. On Christmas day, celebrations are shared, gifts exchanged and games played. Willie is shocked to learn that the German soldiers also believe God to be on their side and realises that were it up to the ordinary soldier the killing would never start again.

Commissioned, decorated and eventually demobilised, Willie Maddison finds it difficult to adjust to civilian life and, after a disastrous love-affair, retreats to a derelict cottage on the North Devon coast to make a start on the book that has been burning in him since that fateful Christmas Day and which he hopes will help prevent the pointless sacrifice of another generation.

It is not long before his unconventional behaviour and what are judged to be dangerously radical ideas are seen by the 'local establishment' as a threat to good order and when he forms an attachment to a daughter of one of the oldest families a campaign is mounted to drive him out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467879620

Peter Rothwell

The landscape of North Devon is dramatic and impressive and has long been the inspiration for painters and poets, writers and dreamers. Charles Kingsley, Turner, R. D. Blackmore, Agatha Christie and more recently Ted Hughes and Henry Williamson to name but a few. Peter Rothwell follows in their illustrious footsteps. Readers familiar with the novels of Henry Williamson will recognise in the title 'ANCIENT SUNLIGHT', a reference and a tribute to his fifteen volume 'Chronicle of Ancient Sunlight', which contains, particularly in the four books set during the Great War, some of the best writing in the English language. Williamson, in his title for the 'Chronicle', was paying homage to Richard Jefferies, whose autobiography'The Story of My Heart' had had such a profound effect upon the young soldier home from the trenches For Peter Rothwell, it was the discovery of Henry Williamson's 'Dandelion Days' when he was fourteen that prompted a deep interest in Williamson's work, eventually leading to several meetings with the author. One of the topics discussed was the ending of 'The Pathway', the final part of Williamson's tetralogy 'The Flax of Dream'. Why had he chosen to end the story the way he had? It transpired that he had considered a number of alternatives. It was at this moment that the idea of writing a 'post-script' to 'The Pathway' was born and approval sought. “You may write what you wish. You may send me a copy, but I will not promise to read it...” came Williamson's reply. 'ANCIENT SUNLIGHT' is the outcome of that conversation... Peter Rothwell is well-known for his paintings and illustrations of North Devon and his books about Lundy Island. 'ANCIENT SUNLIGHT' is his first novel. and won an award from The Winston Graham Trust.

Book preview

ANCIENT

SUNLIGHT

by

Peter Rothwell

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2012 by Peter Rothwell. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 01/10/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4678-7961-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-7962-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

NOTE

‘Ancient Sunlight’ stands as a book in its own right; independent and complete in itself. It may also be read as a continuation of, or post-script to ‘The Flax of Dream’ by Henry Williamson.

As such it is offered with the greatest of respect.

Contents

SEPTEMBER

OCTOBER

NOVEMBER

DECEMBER

EPILOGUE

also by Peter Rothwell

Lundy—An Island Sketchbook

The Lundy Granite Company

ASW

IN MEMORIAM

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Heart-felt thanks to my family and the many dear friends who have helped bring this book to print. A special debt of gratitude is due to the late Ann Westcott to whom the book is dedicated.

SEPTEMBER

Chapter One

A sharp September wind scythes across the Branton Burrows, redefining the shifting landscape of sand hills and secret valleys that lies to the north of the estuary of the Two Rivers. The solitary figure of a man, taking advantage of what little shelter he can find, makes his way toward the shore along a winding track between the wind-blown ridges. As he crests the last high dune he pauses and, leaning against the wind, looks out across the shoreline to the wide estuary where the twin rivers of the Torridge and Taw meet. Despite the freshness of the wind, the sun still warms his face.

On the sandy slopes of the dunes the slender blades of marram grass bend to the press of the petering gale, and in the hollows, the rich colours of bramble, thorn and willow glow against the summer-bleached grass. He studies the scene before him, trying to etch every detail into his memory, to capture the essence of the place that he might carry it with him on his journey.

From the distant hills of Dartmoor, the Torridge winds its way northward toward Bideford. Downstream of the town’s ancient bridge, hulks of ketches and schooners lie abandoned on the tidal flats beneath the river’s wooded banks. Above the brash villas of Westward Ho!, armadas of purple clouds, glowing amber in the evening light, advance across a darkening sky, and in the distance the mist-blue line of a far headland extends its protective arm around the bay.

As he stands high on the dune, the wind on his face, Willie Maddison watches the light drift from the estuary. The colours fade as the sun dips behind the cloudbank, and a chill that heralds the end of the summer, begins to bite. He takes shelter below a sand cliff in the lee of the old lighthouse, and looks out across the familiar panorama for what he has decided will be the last time. The dark mass of Santon Down bounds the northern horizon, and between lies the undulating expanse of Branton Burrows, the secret domain where he and Mary Ogilvie had found love. Saying goodbye to all of this is going to be even harder than he had imagined.

Even in the deepening twilight he can make out the isolated group of buildings that stands like an island in the vastness of the marsh. The ancient manor house of Wildernesse has been the seat of the Ogilvie family for ten generations and is home to the person he holds more dear than life. In the distance, beyond the reclaimed fields, beyond the boundary tracks and reed-beds, the lights of Branton village grow brighter as the evening drew in. Further to the east, below Barum, the River Taw winds seaward through its wide flood plain to meet its sister the Torridge between the gravel spit of Crow Point and the tiny port of Appledore on the southern shore of the estuary. Here in a vast pool the twin streams boil as they meet and mingle with the press of the Atlantic tides.

Willie is in a highly nervous state. Lack of sleep, the heightened apprehension attending the completion and first reading of ‘The Star-Born’ and the unbearable pain of having to leave behind all he most cares for, makes clear-sightedness impossible. He has struggled to maintain a clear distinction between the imagined world of his writing and the uncompromising reality of his lived world, but in vain; they have become inextricably intertwined. Willie’s dream of kinship, love and peace for mankind is his driving force. It was sparked into life on that Christmas Eve on the battlefields of Flanders, when the lowly infantry from opposing armies had lain down their arms and sang hymns together, played football and exchanged gifts. That had been the moment when true brotherhood was acknowledged, and the false propaganda, to which both armies had been subjected, exposed in all its obscene distortion. But the moment had passed and with it a chance for the common man to forge his own destiny. For Willie, the dream of rekindling that spirit of friendship had burned in his soul ever since, and he had sought to personify it in ‘The Star-Born’.

~~~

He strained into the gloom that was gathering over the marshes, trying to make sense of the confusion in his mind. A sudden shaft of light drew his eye; for it could have no other source than the kitchen door of Wildernesse. A figure emerged, silhouetted against the glow. It paused briefly, hands raised as if in prayer. An owl-call wavered on the wind; the figure stood awhile framed in the doorway and then was gone, the light being extinguished as abruptly as it had appeared.

In his minds eye Willie followed her into the house for he knew it could only have been Mary. Tears stung his eyes, the wind whipping them across his cheeks. The pain in his chest burned and he breathed deeply of the cold air to try and control the anguish that was threatening to overwhelm him.

He struggled to his feet, railing against the fates that had driven him to this despair, but his cries were choked by shuddering sobs as his heart broke in a confusion of anger, incomprehension and a fierce detestation of his own weakness. He was a refugee from a crisis of his own making. And yet, why had he been vilified so persistently? Surely, the idea of brotherhood of nations and a lasting peace was preferable to another war?

As always, whenever his belief in himself faltered, a tide of despair flooded over him. The horrors of the trenches were visited upon him once again, and the screams of the dying, comrades and enemy alike, rang in his ears. There had been so much destruction, so much wasting of precious life. Why had he survived with his naive ideas for reconciliation and reconstruction, a dream of finding a new way forward into the sunlight of peace and freedom for all mankind? He had hoped the completion of ‘The Star-Born’ would be an ending, a crystallisation of those ideas. He realised now it was only a beginning, a short faltering step along a pathway that might never end, and yet along which he knew he must journey.

He turned away from the sandy tracts of the Burrows, and gazed out again over the wide bay that curved away before him. The last golden gleam of the sun that had burned in his tears, blazed on the wide horizon. Only Lundy’s low, island silhouette broke the smooth dark line, her length marked by twin lighthouses, their signals answering the light on Hartland Point. Beyond the western sky stretched the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, a new world and the promise of a new life.

So it was to the distant horizon that his spirit turned. Only when he had become whole and the ‘The Star-Born’ had been rewritten would he return. There could be no peace, no refuge until he had healed himself.

In his heart he wished to run back to Mary, to declare his new enlightenment, to reassure, to convince, to make everything right. He knew however, that he must not. He had already broken his promise to her mother not to. The memory of her refusing to let him say goodbye to Mary and her chill words as she physically barred him from the house was all too fresh in his mind.

‘Best left, Willie!’ Biddy, his old nurse would say when she had seen him stiffen against his father’s harsh and often unjust criticism. His instinct had always been to protest his innocence, and he had never understood restraint or the reason for it until now. Now he knew without question that he must walk away. And so it was that Willie Maddison acknowledged his weakness, confronted what he was, and resolved somehow to try to become worthy of his own vision.

~~~

The walk from the high dunes across the slacks to the estuary side did not take Willie long. The wind had dropped a little with the tide, but the roar of the breakers on the Bar, made it clear a heavy sea was still running. Soon the salmon boats would be returning as the flood tide carried them upstream. The clouds fled before the wind, and the wide ribbon of the river shone silver under the rising moon. With the tide low he could make his way across the exposed shingle spits to await a salmon boat that would carry him across the estuary to Appledore. He wondered if Jimmy Chugg’s skiff would be the first back up the river. He hoped it would be, for then he would have the chance to bid him farewell, and thank him for his friendship.

He took shelter for a while behind the breakwaters that protected Branton Light and listened to the night. All the sounds he knew so well sang in the air and the gleam of the lantern, high on the lighthouse tower, illuminated the shadow-bound landscape. Its beam lay across the mud flats and pools of the estuary side, exposing a labyrinth of shingle banks and weed-covered ridges. How many hours had he spent here in those wondrous days of certainty, immersed in his writing, bathed in the blessed light of the restoring sun? His spirit had soared on the wind with the sea-birds as his message of hope and salvation was woven into the allegory of the ‘The Star-Born’. He had never questioned that truth for a moment.

As the crystal night deepened around him, he brought each face and place of his recent life to mind in a private valediction. He would shed the shell of his old self. Nothing would remain but the precious manuscript of ‘The Star-Born’ to be reworked when he was strong enough. He adjusted his pack on his shoulder and, bending into the strengthening wind, set out across the shingle banks to the Sharshook to await the salmon boats. He said his silent farewells and with a sadness only for what might have been, turned his back on his past life and the westering sun, and took the first steps toward a new future.

Willie’s progress across the exposed shingle ridges was made easier by the light of the rising moon breaking through the advancing clouds; nevertheless, he frequently slipped on the weed and wet stones. Before long he was soaked through, and was glad his exertions were keeping him warm. He scanned the river, searching for a sign of the salmon boats returning upstream. Occasionally he thought he could make out the light of a lantern against the low dark shape of the Northam bank. The flood tide had gathered pace, the current hissing over the shingle, twisting and coiling as it filled the pools and channels; the cold light giving the scene an unearthly quality.

Now and again, on the wind, came the cry of an oystercatcher or a curlew and once, just once, a sharp high creaking call he recognised but could not identify. The suck of the swirling tide was an eerie sound, and the plaintive birdcall sent a shiver of apprehension through him. He had not felt so desperate since being wounded and given up for dead in the shattered remains of Ploegsteert Wood. On that occasion too he heard the strange cry.

Then on the wind came the sound of a dog barking. His spaniel was searching for him. Willie had left him with the vicar after the reading of the ‘The Star-Born’; he was to have made sure Mary looked after him. Now, there was nothing Willie could do, the dog would find his own way to Wildernesse. An intricate maze of ridges and channels stretched out behind him. He could not go back. Sadly, Willie turned again to his immediate predicament.

It had become clear that the shingle spit on which he was standing would soon be an island, and a rapidly shrinking one. He was stranded and retreating or continuing would produce similar results. Where were the boats? Why weren’t they returning with the tide? In the moonlight, the mud of the Appledore bank lay steep and glistening like the flank of a gigantic whale. Ten minutes ago there had seemed but a few yards of water between him and it. Behind him, the pools had merged to become one swirling expanse of water, writhing in the shivering light. His plight was becoming desperate.

He made his way past pieces of river flotsam to the edge of the stream, and carefully began to wade in. The power of the current surprised him, forcing him to pause and reconsider his situation. Perhaps if he could signal somehow he would be seen, and someone would pull across to pick him up. All the time the channel widened as the speed and strength of the flood tide increased. From his pack he took a few pages of his precious manuscript and put a match to them.

They flared briefly in the biting wind and burnt to his fingers. Again and again he tried, each time the same brief illumination, blinding him with its glare, and then total blackness, but as his eyes readjusted to the darkness he saw no answering light. Nothing was moving in the village or on the river. No dark shapes gliding upstream, no Jimmy Chugg calling to his mates.

His predicament was serious. He could not understand it, but for some reason there were no boats on the river, therefore the choice was simple. The Appledore bank was closer now than Crow, and Appledore was where he wished to be. A short swim and he would soon be relaxing in the comfort of a hot bath at ‘The Prince of Wales’. There was no time for debate; the longer he delayed the more difficult the swim would be. Willie took off his clothes, packed them into his rucksack and strapping it loosely onto a piece of driftwood, waded out into the river, pushing the makeshift raft before him.

The cold cut through him but he was more concerned with the strength of the current. He had always been a powerful swimmer, yet he was finding it very hard to make any headway and had been carried a hundred yards up stream before he felt the current slacken at all. Trying to keep a hold on the heavy timber that supported his pack was hampering him considerably, and the cold was beginning to take its toll. The eddies and surges of the tide twisted and turned him, sapping his strength and sweeping him further and further into the widening expanse of the deep water anchorage until he realised he was tiring very quickly, much too quickly. He prayed for the reassuring touch of the riverbed but none came.

After a time the cold no longer troubled him. There was no panic; and he began to yield to the press of the tide. He had lost his grip on his raft, but even so his attempts to swim against the current were becoming more and more feeble and ineffectual. If only he could rest for a short while, his strength would be restored.

The lights of the village began to grow dim as they span away and the river closed over him. He was at the mercy of the current, and had become part of the flooding tide. A deep feeling of peace flowed through him as he submitted to the will of the river spirit. The last sensation he experienced was the powerful grip of its embrace, he got no further than thinking about resisting before the thought faded and any conscious grasp on life was relinquished.

Chapter Two

In Appledore, the bar of ‘The Coach & Horses’ was full. Its crowd of Saturday night regulars was well on its way to a memorable evening. A fire glowed in the hearth and a mellow hum of conversation, punctuated by peals of wild laughter, rolled around the bar. The landlord was on good form, telling some of his more outrageous stories, having consumed just the right amount of his favourite tipple, a dark ale known locally as ‘Black Nag’. An ex-deep-water man, Karl Beckmann had, as he put it, run aground with a pension and a wooden leg after an accident on board one of the big German barques that used to carry fertiliser up to Bristol from the Galapagos. He had been taken off the Shinvalla by a pilot cutter that had carried him up to Barum where the doctors in the hospital took off his left leg below the knee. He always reckoned he owed his life to the unknown skipper of the cutter who had sailed his craft up the Taw through its notorious maze of shifting sandbanks to Town Quay in weather most men would have stayed shy of. All the pilots knew the story, and that Karl’s gratitude was genuine; a drink was always offered to any pilot who graced ‘The Coach’ with his custom.

Tonight found the crew of the pilot cutter Hydra at the bar waiting for the tide before making for Lundy where, rumour had it, a good ‘fare’ or two might be in the offing.

‘Two jugs of best and a glass of cider for Davie, Karl, and then uz’ll be off.’ The unexpectedly high-pitched voice of Tom ‘Skip’ Harris called up the bar to the ‘Lounge’ where Karl was entertaining a visitor with his tales.

‘Just comink, Tom. Do you vant a rum vis me?’

‘No, ta! Uz’ll ’ave ’n when uz is een next.’ Tom only occasionally accepted Karl’s offer, and never before going to sea. Nevertheless, Karl kept a bottle of Tom’s favourite rum behind the bar for him. Every now and then Tom would receive a bottle or two from a grateful skipper as a token of appreciation for a job well done. He would sell any spares to Karl for a good price, and always kept one on board the Hydra with which to celebrate their safe return. As a boy, Tom had watched his father drown on the Bar, driving his vessel too hard while racing to catch a fare after a few too many tots of rum at the ‘Royal’. Tom maintained however, that there was nothing wrong with a couple of jugs of Black Nag to wash down a plate of bread and cheese and some of Betty Beckmann’s pickled onions.

‘They’m the strongest pickles this side of the river, Betty. Sets a man up fair!’ Tom was wont to declare, slapping his sides.

‘They’ll be able to smell ’e comin’ een Swansea.’ Dan Pollard shouted.

‘You’m a fine one to talk, Dan Pollard. Uz always knaws when you’m ashore. All the alley cats een town sits outside yer waitin’ fur ’e!’ Roars of laughter rang round the bar at the expense of the trawlerman.

Conversation turned to talk of the big clippers that had been seen off Hartland Point heading for Lundy before the easterly gale had set in. Tom reckoned their skippers would make for the lee of the island to ride out the storm, and if he could run down wind before the gale he could be there when the big three masters were ready to set out if the weather eased. It was risky, but a risk worth taking and he would be able to put one over on Josh Covill and the Dawn Light. Once in the lee of the island he could have his pick of the vessels waiting for a fair wind up channel. The word was that tomorrow would bring a change in the weather so he wanted at all costs to be anchored off Jenny’s Cove on the west side of the island by early morning.

Tom Harris’s boat, the Hydra, was famous in the channel for being fast and seaworthy. Tom worked the boat with his son Peter who was mate and acting skipper when Tom was not on board. Pete ‘Poacher’ Harris was renowned the length of the Torridge for his uncanny ability to poach the wild salmon that return to the spawning grounds each season. The water bailiffs had been trying to catch him for nearly twenty years, ever since that day when, as a boy of nine, he had appeared with a fish almost as long as he was tall. He had never told a living soul his secret. The legend was that he could charm the fish, but when questioned about this he simply smiled and gave a knowing wink. Apart from his rather dubious reputation as a master poacher, Pete Harris was a fine sailor and he could read the weather as well as, if not better than his father. He was a fifth generation pilot and knew the Bristol Channel like the back of his hand. The other member of the crew was Tom’s nephew Davie Harris, and, at eighteen, already an experienced seaman, and apprenticed pilot.

Pete and Davie said their farewells, leaving Tom to finish his drink. They made their way down Factory Ope to the Quay to ready the Hydra for sea. Several of Appledore’s more notorious characters, already the worse for the evening’s excesses, littered the quayside, oblivious to the perilous nature of their situation. Were they to pitch into the dark water no one would hear their cries, for the wind was building and the river looked uneasy, with occasional white crests flashing in the moonlight. Alongside the quay, boats were beginning to strain viciously at their mooring lines as the wind, driving across the tide, built up the short river-swell. Fenders creaked loudly as the weight of the hulls pressed against the woven coir and old tyres.

‘’Tiz going to be an interesting night, Davie boy!’ Pete’s remark was not intended to alarm but to prepare his cousin gently for what he felt could be a difficult voyage. In his heart he knew that if had not been for the intense rivalry between his father and Josh Covill they would all be tucked up in their beds.

‘Git ’ome you, the ole girl’ll zee uz right. ’Er loves a bit of a blow.’ Davie’s reply was not all bravado. He had complete faith in the Hydra and the skill of her skipper and mate.

Pete loosened the ties on the mainsail, and bent on the small working jib. Davie lit the lantern below decks, then stowed and lashed all the gear ready for a bumpy ride over the Bar. He heard Tom jump on board and call him on deck to light the navigation lights and cast off the bow line. Getting away from the quay under sail in any kind of an easterly wind was a tricky manoeuvre. Tom had always refused to have an engine fitted on the Hydra claiming the extra weight and the drag of the propeller would slow her down. He was definitely one of a dying breed, only the Hydra and Josh Covill’s Dawn Light remained in Appledore as pure sailing cutters, and yet they were often the first to a job, being able to stay at sea in weather that sent the powered cutters running for shelter.

Like his ancestors before him, Tom relied on his skill and experience to carve a living from the sea, and it was those qualities he would need tonight. He made the difficult business of getting under way look easy, the timing had to be perfect, setting the sails at just the right moment so they filled in time to drive the Hydra away from the quay before the current took her, at the same time releasing the stern lines after they had helped bring her head around. The crew worked well together as they picked their way skilfully between the vessels straining at their moorings. Pete nudged Davie as they approached the dark shape of the Dawn Light. In an impressive demonstration of seamanship, Pete went about to put the Hydra on a starboard tack just at the moment when a collision with the rival cutter seemed inevitable. Tom was proud of his crew and took great delight in their ability to handle the Hydra with such ease and efficiency.

The lights of the village drew away as the wind filled the sails and they picked up speed. A course was set for the light on Crow Point and the easy part of the voyage began. Darkness engulfed them as the lights of Instow and Appledore were left astern. Tom picked his way down stream using the leading lights and familiar transits to keep his course within the deep channel. The rigging creaked and tightened as the sails felt the full weight of the wind. Hydra leant into the short swell as she quickened, and Pete went forward to set the second headsail. Although a long way short of being fully canvassed, Hydra now had enough sail set to enable her to show her paces, and the surge of power was felt through the hull as the cutter came into her own.

Tom’s pipe was lit, all was secure, and another job was under way. A brew was called for, which meant a task for Davie. Hydra carried a tiny stove over which Tom had rigged a cradle, an ingenious lattice affair that could hold a kettle or a pan in even the worst weather. It was an apprentice’s duty to tend the stove; a responsibility Davie took very seriously indeed, for you could never tell when the crew would need something hot inside them. Many have been the occasions when a mug of hot cocoa had helped to keep them awake through the small hours.

Tom and Pete sat braced in the cockpit the light from the cabin shining on their spray-drenched faces. Davie passed up Tom’s enamel mug, and he was about to make his way up the companionway with Pete’s, when there was an almighty crash and the terrifying sound of splintering timber. The boat almost stopped dead in her tracks, heeling violently to port and pitching Davie backwards down the steps onto the cabin floor, the hot cocoa spraying him as he landed. On deck there was feverish activity as the sheets were let go to try and spill the wind from the sails that were threatening to push the Hydra over. Slowly she started to right herself and her stern began to swing as the flood-tide gripped her, driving her hard against what ever it was they had collided with.

‘What the bloody hell… ?’ Tom’s voice was a fierce mixture of anger and incredulity.

‘Uz can’t be aground, Da. Uz’s on the marks, an’ there’s more’n enough water.’ Pete had been on the helm when the Hydra struck and he had been dead-on the leading lights on Crow Point. Tom dropped the mainsail‚ leaving only the headsails to work for him. Davie appeared on deck rubbing his shoulder.

‘You all right, lad?’ Davie nodded not altogether convincingly in reply to Tom’s enquiry.

‘Make this fast then.’ Tom handed him the main halyard.

‘Then, fetch the lantern from below.’ Tom was peering over the port side straining to make out in the darkness what it was that had them in its grip.

‘We’ve hit something, boy… . Christ, it’s a bliddy gurt tree! Uz’ve driven right een ’mongst its branches. Uz’ll ’ave to cut ’n loose afore the bugger smashes our bliddy planks. Give us thacky lamp yer! I sees ’n. Blasted thing’s caught under the bobstay. Get the axe, Peter, I’ll ’ave to go over an’ cut ’n free, else uz’ll be dragged on to the Sharshook.’ Tom made to climb over the side onto the trunk of the huge tree that held them.

‘Don’t you go over, Da, I’ll do that. You get on the helm for when uz is loose. Davie, you stand by the main halyard and when I yell, you haul on ’n fer all yer life. Don’t stop for naught, no matter what happens. If uz bain’t quick uz is gwain lose ’er! Now give uz thicky axe.’ Pete clambered into the branches and made his way to where the stem of the Hydra was held between the limbs of the huge tree. He stumbled against something, and expecting to feel the hardness of the timber he was shocked to feel it yield. An involuntary shout of surprise sounded from the darkness.

‘There’s stuff caught up een ’n! Christ, it looks like… Da, come yer! Jesus! Da, there’s something tangled… Christ, it’s a body, there’s a body caught een the branches, Da!’ Tom had come for’ard and was standing on the bow high above his son.

‘Is ’n dade? Can ’e get ’n up, boy?’

‘Hand the jib, and pass the halyard over… I’ll bind ’n off then you an’ Davie can pull ’n on deck.’ To his credit Davie was already lowering the sail and in no time Pete had tied the halyard off in a bowline under the arms of the corpse.

‘You’ll’ve to strap ’e’s arms down to ’e’s waist, else ’n’ll zlip out of yer loop. Yer, lash ’n down wi’ this yer.’ Tom threw one of the sail ties to his son.

The tree and the Hydra were rolling wildly, at the mercy of the wind and the tide. The body rose and fell, its arms appearing to beckon to Pete as he struggled to make them fast. Several times Tom’s heart skipped a beat as he saw his son lose his footing and fall between the hull and the trunk of the tree. At last Pete managed to make the body fast and he screamed over the crashing of the seas for them to haul away.

Tom and Davie heaved with all their might, and with Pete guiding it from below, the body eventually came free and was hauled onto the deck. Tom lashed the corpse beneath the gunwale for the time being, anxiously checking his son’s efforts to release them. Pete was hard at work with the axe, carving furiously into the branches that still held them in their grasp. One by one he slashed through them until only one bough remained but it was trapped under the bobstay, tearing at the fastening on the stem. It was a race against time. There was not only the threat of being wrecked on the Sharshook, but now the more immediate danger of losing their mast if the bobstay was ripped out. Again and again the blade cut deep as Pete swung the axe into the twisting timber, then with a sound like a wounded animal, the limb split and splintered and Hydra wrenched herself free.

‘Now, Davie! Get some sail on ’er!’ Pete shouted. And then the tree rolled back sharply, the tide rip spinning it away from its captive. The momentum threw Pete against the hull of the boat. His father heard him shout and turned just in time to see his son clinging desperately to the gunwale.

‘’Ang on, boy!’ Tom rushed to the side and grabbed his son’s arms.

‘Davie, take the helm, and bring ’er up into the wind!’ Tom shouted.

‘But… !’

‘Do as you’m bid! She’ll be all right, the tide’ll keep her off the ’ook. I need to get Pete up, an’ I need you to hold ’er on the wind.’

The Hydra came into the wind her sails slatting and cracking and as her bows plunged deep into the swell a wave took Pete’s weight, lifting him as the boat dipped. Timing his effort to coincide with the swell, Tom just managed to haul Pete onto the deck.

‘I’m all right, Da.’ There was a good deal of relief in his voice. ‘Now let’s get this little lot sorted out before the ol’ girl gives up on uz.’

‘’Er won’t do that! Bear away, Davie! Smart as you can! Good lad!’ Pete made his way to the cockpit and took the helm from Davie as the sails filled. ‘Now, fetch my oilskins and then give Tom an ’and getting that body below deck.’

Pete steadied the Hydra as best he could, sheeting in the main and bringing her around until she had the wind behind her for the run down river to the Bar. The weight of the seas increased as the easterly wind drove over the incoming tide, building the short steep seas the estuary was notorious for. Again and again she rose up the crest to pound into the deep trough with a shuddering impact.

On the foredeck Tom and Davie struggled to manhandle the body aft into the cockpit bracing themselves against the pitching as Hydra dug deep into the swell that was the first indicator of what was waiting for them as they approached the Bar.

‘You get below and I’ll pass ’n down to ’e.’ Tom held the corpse against the bulkhead as Davie made his way down the companionway. Tom lifted the body up and walked it across to the head of the steps. Waiting below, Davie watched this macabre dance as the Tom struggled to steady the corpse and lift it over the washboard onto the top step. Davie grabbed it from behind and began to move backwards down the remaining steps into the cabin. On the helm, Pete could see the figures outlined against the light from the cabin. The head of the corpse lolled over his father’s shoulder, the pallor of the skin the more deathly in the moonlight. The eyes were closed and sunken, the hair flat, matted against the forehead, partially covering a deep gash. And yet the face had a peaceful expression; there was no sign of pain or tension; it was as if sleep and not death had overcome him. The serenity of the face made a marked impression on the young sailor, distracting him for a moment.

The vicious crash of a wave as it broke against the bow brought the severity of their situation sharply back into focus.

‘You’ll ’ave to ’urry you two, uz’s nearly at the Bar buoy an’ we’ll need to be on starboard tack any minute!’ Pete yelled above the rising wind and fought to keep the Hydra on course as he headed toward the deep toll of the buoy. The thought of his father and Davie trying to manoeuvre the corpse with Hydra heeled over with the lee rail under really alarmed him.

‘’Ave ’e got ’n?’ Tom’s voice had an urgent tone. Tom struggled to keep his balance as Davie steadied the body from below.

‘Right hold on there, an’ I’ll lift ’e’s feet. You ready?’ Davie felt the full weight of the body as Tom lifted the legs. It was taking all his strength to hold the dead weight, and he was praying that he could keep his grip, when suddenly the cutter reared up the face of a breaking sea to hang momentarily on the shattering crest before plunging into what felt like a bottomless pit. As Hydra fell, Davie lost his balance and the corpse seemed to become suspended in mid-air. Then, as the cutter slammed into the face of the next wave, he was catapulted off the companionway, crashing onto the cabin floor. The body landed on top of Davie with an impact that drove all the air out of him. He was badly winded and fought through the pain to get the breath back into his lungs. Panic almost overcame him as he lay pinioned beneath the weight of the corpse. He struggled desperately to free himself, the bitter taste of fear rising in his throat. He shouted to Tom, but the reply that came was not from his skipper. One minute, Davie was staring at the closed eyes of a dead man, and then suddenly they opened and stared back into his. A long drawn out moan came from its lips. The power of panic gave Davie the strength to push the body away as he screamed to Tom.

‘It’s alive! It groaned! Tom! Get down yer fer God’s sake. ’E’s alive, ’onest. Do somert, fer Christ’s sake do somert!’ Tom climbed down into the cabin, the swinging lantern casting wild shadows over the desperate scene before him. Davie was cringing against the bunk-side as the corpse rolled in the water swilling on the cabin floor.

‘It’s all right, lad. Get some blankets from the bunk an’ stoke up that stove o’ yours.’ Davie was glad to have something to do. He threw the blankets to Tom and busied himself getting a blaze going. He watched Tom kneel astride the body and begin to push rhythmically with all his might on the shoulders of the man. As he did so, another moan came from the body. To Davie it was the most awful sound he had ever heard.

‘Don’t just gawp at ’n, get they blankets round ’n!’

‘Is ’n dade or what?’ Davie couldn’t believe what was happening.

‘Purdy Well, I’d zay, but I reckon there’s a spark een ’n yet. That’s it, tuck ’im up well. Now get the rum bottle from my cabin! An’ don’t tell uz you don’t know where ’n’s to!’ Tom went on pumping away at the body. The moan suddenly became a cough, a hollow rattling cough, followed by violent retching as what seemed like gallons of seawater spewed over the floor; then a wailing, wheezing intake of breath that sounded as if it would go on for ever. There was more coughing and vomiting, more gulping of air until the cycle steadied and the body began to move its arms. He was alive. Tom sat him up and wiped the hair from his face.

‘Give us an ’and, Davie, uz’ll ’ave to get ’n onto the bunk so uz can strap ’n een. ’E’s alive Pete. You saved ’n!’ Tom called up to his son in the cockpit.

‘I reckon ’e won’t be with uz proper for a while yet, but ’e’s all right so far.’ They wrapped the man in dry blankets and lashed canvas ties across the bunk. Tom managed to get a dribble of rum down the man’s throat.

‘Maybe that’ll warm ’n up a bit.’ He took a long look at Davie.

‘Shook ’e up a bit, didn’ it? Don’t worry, ’e did well. It must ’ave been one ’ell of a shock fer ’e. N’er mind, uz’ll ’ave a mug o’ tea in a bit an’ try an’ catch uz breath. You keep an eye on ’n while I go an’ see ’ow uz be gwain on.’ Tom slapped Davie on the back. He climbed up into the cockpit and looked around him. The scene that surrounded them was one of extreme drama, the power of the seas on the Bar was always awesome, but with wind over tide, a level of violence was sometimes reached that could impress even the most hardened seaman.

‘How’s she doin’, son?’ Tom didn’t need to ask, the Hydra was taking the rearing seas as if born to it, and Pete was revelling in the thrill of the challenge.

‘Not so bad now, but there’s ’ell of a sea runnin’. I reckon we could ease the jib a bit.’

‘I’ll let ’n out. Say when!’ Tom went forward and let out the headsail sheet, watching the while for Pete’s signal. He made it fast again and worked his way back to the cockpit.

‘What’s us gwain do wi ’n, Da, uz can’t go back een agin this yer wind. Uz’ll ’ave to take ’n wi’ uz.’

‘Well ’e’s better off yur than at the bottom o’ Mother Torridge.’ Tom’s face carried a wry smile, and he shook his head in wonderment.

‘Christ! Just when you think you’ve seen it all. I’ll be buggered.’

The cutter drove powerfully into the wild breakers on the Bar. The pounding lasted for a good twenty minutes and then they were through the worst of it, the motion easing slightly as Hydra met the long Atlantic swell. Her wake trailed, straight and bright in the moonlight. A course was set for the island and the crew took time to pray for the weather to ease and to reflect upon the eventful start to their voyage. The Hydra plunged on into the night running before the power of the east wind.

Tom calculated that with the time they had lost he would have to set a more northerly course, as the ebb would soon begin to set against them. The easterly had carried them against the flood but the delay had cost them nearly an hour. The cutter lay to port as she felt the stiffening breeze on her starboard quarter. This was her best point of sail and she was running like a true thoroughbred. Hundreds of years of development had gone into the refinement of her lines, producing a hull and rig perfectly suited for the violent and unpredictable weather of the Bristol Channel. Hydra made excellent time across Bideford Bay breasting the heavy Atlantic swell and soon Branton Light was lost behind the high dunes of Aery Point as she romped up channel, a bone in her teeth and her new passenger secure below.

Davie had been appointed ship’s nurse for the duration of the voyage, with strict instructions to call out if there was any change at all in the condition of his patient. At first he rushed to the companionway every time the man stirred, but soon a pattern was established and he was able to ignore such minor disturbances. The little stove hissed and from a hook in one of the beams the oil lamp swung crazily, casting strange shadows that played across the man’s features in weird animation. The whole atmosphere was one that Davie found decidedly uncomfortable. He would much prefer to be in his usual place in the corner of the cockpit with his back to the bulkhead, ready for whatever the storm could throw at him. There he felt a part of the Hydra and her crew, here below with this half-alive corpse he felt cut off and isolated from the world above, and the fumes from the oil lamp and the heat from the stove were beginning to make him feel decidedly queasy. He tried to jam himself into the starboard bunk so that he could get his head down, but that didn’t help. He pulled out some spare canvas from the sail locker and fashioned a sort of pillow, and with his feet braced against the bulkhead, he at last managed to keep the effects of the motion of the boat to a minimum.

His charge barely stirred but every now and again would moan and mouth a few incomprehensible words. All else was routine, the drone of conversation from the cockpit, the regular rhythmical hiss of the sea against the hull and the wind sighing in the rigging all served to lull him against his discomfort. He closed his eyes against the leaping shadows and at last sleep beckoned him to her arms.

Davie’s slumbers were beset by wild disturbing images of trees whose branches became writhing serpents, enveloping the boat and plucking first Tom then Peter from the deck, leaving him alone to battle with the snake-like tentacles and save the ship. Davie fought with all his might, screaming into the blackness, as the nightmare creature was about to enfold him in its embrace.

He awoke in a blind panic, struggling to separate the horror of the dream from the reality that confronted him. Hydra was rearing and crashing through the seas throwing him viciously against the bulkhead. Desperate screams were coming from the other bunk as the man fought against his restraints. Timing his movements to the lurches of the boat, Davie made his way over to him and untied the straps that held the man’s arms. Instantly he sat bolt upright, raving incoherently, his eyes wild and staring straight at Davie but focused on something far beyond him. He seemed to be trying to grasp hold of something, for his hands began thrusting in front of him, working as if in a frenzy of frustration. The fear and anguish in his cries echoed the frightful sounds of Davie’s nightmare. Finally Davie began to sift reality from his dream and he managed to get a grip on himself. He knew Tom and Pete would have their hands full, so it was clear that whatever had to be done here below was for him to do.

The infernal noise of the storm and the cries of the stranger made it difficult for Davie to think clearly. He tried to get the man to lie back again, seeking to reassure him and calm him down. He tried to take hold of the flailing hands, but his own wrists were held in a desperate grip. What was he to do now? He dare not pull away, not that he could have. It was as if he was bound to the man. The cries stopped, but the eyes still held the same distant look. Davie tried to think of something to say but it all sounded weak and hollow. In the end he gently but firmly pushed the man back down onto the pillow.

‘That’s it! You just bide still; you’m quite safe… Reckon you’ve ’ad a bit of a scare.’ Davie felt awkward talking to the man as if he were a child but it seemed to work. The grip on his hands was relaxed and he was able to free himself. He pulled the blankets up under the man’s chin, and tucked his hands beneath the rough grey cloth.

‘You just ’ave a kip now. I’ll bide yur an’ zee you’m all right.’ It was a little time before the man was breathing more easily. Once he was sure all was calm, Davie began to make his way up into the cockpit. As he started up the companionway he heard the man call out again, but this time quite softly.

‘Mary! . . . Mary, is that you? I can’t hear you. Mary! Mary!’ Davie went to his side and peered at the face on the pillow.

The eyes were closed, but tears were streaming from them, and collecting in pools in the hollows of his face.

‘You’re all right, Mister. ’Tez all right! You’m safe on the Hydra. Uz’ll take ’e ’ome when uz ’as finished the job. Take ’e back ’ome uz will. Don’t ’e vret none. You’ll be all right, zure ’nuff.’

‘Must get across! I can’t feel… I’m so tired… the water…’ The man’s voice faded, and he slowly settled back. No sooner had his head touched the pillow than his eyes suddenly opened wide, the light of the swinging lantern flashing in them as he stared around the cabin until his eyes met Davie’s.

‘Where am I? What happened? Who… ? Willie tried to sit up, but his head barely stirred from the pillow. He put his hands to his brow and grimaced with pain.

‘You’m aboard the Hydra, Mister, best pilot cutter on the North Coast. Uz is een a bit of a blow, but ’er’s lovin’ it. You’m quite safe. ’Ave a sip o’ this yur.’ Davie poured a little tot of rum into a tin mug. The man took it, and sipped it in silence until it had gone.

‘Now you just take it easy an’ ’ave a zleep.’

And sleep the passenger did, deeply and soundly. Davie sat for some time trying to steady himself against the pounding of the Hydra. The man began to snore and Davie decided to take advantage of the moment and get up on deck for some fresh air, after all, he was crew and should be with the men seeing to the boat, he wasn’t cut out to be a nurse-maid. He loosely lashed the man in again and started up into the cockpit. He opened the companionway doors, closed fast against the wind and breaking seas.

What greeted him was incredible. As he lifted his head, the shrieking gale drove icy darts of spray into his face. He had known Hydra was hard pressed by the angle of heel, but here on deck the effect was even more dramatic. The lee rail was well under water, and, caught in the brief light from the cabin before he closed the doors, he could see Tom and Pete braced on the weather side of the cockpit. Tom had taken over the helm and his hand was locked on the tiller as he fought to keep the little ship on course. Their faces were grim set beneath their ‘sou’westers’, and water several inches deep was swilling around the cockpit grating. Beyond this oasis of light all was darkness, broken only by the shadowy forms of the giant seas, their breaking crests catching the light as they cascaded past, to be lost in the blackness. Occasionally the dim glow from the binnacle was reflected in the spray that was lashing across the deck.

The noise around him was deafening; the screaming wind was putting the rigging under immense strain, adding a deep, throbbing drone to the wild roaring and hissing of the breaking seas. The whole scene was straight out of Davie’s nightmare. He tried to shout to Pete that all was secure below, but the words were ripped from his mouth as he uttered them. He managed to make it clear everything was all right and he just wanted some air. Pete’s gesture indicated that he saw the irony of that remark. Up on deck, air was the last thing they had any shortage of. The problem was it came at you very fast and mixed with other ingredients.

Davie tried to get his bearings as the Hydra raced up the huge seas to hang momentarily before the stomach-wrenching drop into the waiting trough.

‘Where be uz to, Pete? Davie was straining to pick out a landmark that would enable him fix their position.

‘You should be able to see Bull Light just off the starboard bow. That’s our heading, an’ I saw ’n just now. There ’er be!’ Pete pointed into the darkness. ‘Count the flashes. One, two, three. That’s Bull all right.’ Davie caught sight of a brief flash of light as Hydra danced down the wave.

‘Uz ’ave got to be ’ell of a close to Morte Stone, Pete.’ Davie was well aware of the fearsome reputation of the infamous half-tide rock, only visible sign of the treacherous reef and shallow outfalls that lay off Morte Point.

‘We’re goin’ eenside.’ Tom’s matter of fact voice gave no hint of the statement’s significance, but Davie knew even in daylight in fair weather taking the inshore passage between the headland and the reef buoy was a desperately risky business. To attempt it at night in a gale would test even Tom’s skills to the fullest.

‘There’s still enough tide. I reckons I’ve got a good mark on Bull an’ Harty lights, an’ we can save at least an hour if uz don’t ’ave to make another tack. The seas’ll be just as bad out beyond the ‘Stone’, an’ there’ll be cleaner water in Rockham Bay, so uz is gwain eenside.’ Tom’s tone made it clear there would be no discussion. ‘Once uz is through, uz can go about and run down with the ebb to the island.’

The wind must have backed since Davie had last been on deck because they were close-hauled, and a glance at the compass gave their heading as almost due north. Soon they would have to bear away to pick up the transit between Bull and Hartland if they were going to get through Morte Cut unscathed. Davie could see the reason for Tom deciding to take the risk; with any more North in the wind the ships sheltering at Lundy would be getting nervous. The West Side anchorage would get increasingly dangerous the more the wind backed. Hydra had to make the island before the ships decided to up-anchor and run before the storm back out into the Atlantic. Putting anyone on board a vessel that was under way in these seas and at night would be nigh on impossible, even for the crew of the Hydra.

Very little was said for the next half-hour or so and the tension was almost unbearable as Tom navigated the Hydra and her crew through the maelstrom of the Cut. The seas pounded them; rising up as if from nowhere, their crests torn from them by the wind that was blasting across the headland, pounding them onto the deck. The current was ripping through the narrow channel and it held Hydra in its grip. For that moment, and to Pete on the helm it felt like an eternity, they were in the hands of the Almighty. At last, and to everyone’s great relief, they emerged without suffering anything worse than a battering, several green seas over the bows and a flooded cockpit that took some time to drain.

As Tom had predicted, the conditions improved once they were clear of the Cut, the seas felt calmer and they were able to gybe without too much risk and set a new course for Lundy. The wind was fair for the island and Hydra was on her best point of sail.

‘She must be doing ten knots or more, Da!’ Pete called out to his father. ‘We’ll make the island in an hour at this rate. How’s our passenger, Davie boy?’

‘I’ll go an’ check ’n.’ Davie went below; all was as he had left it, his patient sleeping, somewhat fitfully it had to be said, but there was no sign of his earlier distress. The cabin was a scene of utter chaos but Davie