“I can see it now.” It was McKinnon shouting from the bows. “Starboard quarter, sir.”
Nicolson twisted in his seat, looked quickly over his shoulder. For a moment or two he could see nothing, he couldn’t even hear anything, and then he could both hear and see it, a thin white line in the darkness, a long continuous line that vanished and appeared again, closer than it had been when it faded. Surf, it must be surf, no breakers ever looked like that in the darkness. Thank God for so much anyway. Nicolson faced for’ard again.
“Right, Bo’sun, let it go.”
McKinnon had been waiting the word, the iron-hooped mouth of the sea-anchor in his hands. Now he flung it as far for’ard into the sea as he could, paying out the warp as the sea-anchor filled and started dragging.
“Get those oars out!” Nicolson had already unshipped the rudder and drawn the shaft of the steering oar up through the grummet, sculling furiously to keep the lifeboat head on to sea until the sea-anchor took hold: no easy work when he couldn’t make out the set of the waves in the darkness, when he’d nothing to guide him but the wind in his face and the water-logged movement of the boat. He could hear the scraping and muffled oaths as men tried to free trapped oars, then the metallic clunks as they dropped into the crutches. “Give way together,” he called. “Easy, now, easy!”
He had no hope that they would pull together in the darkness, and he didn’t expect it. Just so long as they pulled, he could correct any excesses with his steering oar. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. The line of surf was almost directly astern now, and its low sullen booming carried clearly to his ears, even against the wind. It could have been fifty yards away, it could have been two hundred and fifty yards away. It was impossible to tell in the darkness.
He faced round again, tried to peer for’ard, but the wind whipped the rain and the salt spray into his eyes, and he could see nothing. The wind appeared to be strengthening. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “How’s it taking, McKinnon?”
“Och, it’s just fine, sir. Taking grand.” Several fathoms of the sea-anchor were already stretched out tautly over the bow, and the bo’sun had just finished stabbing the attached oil-bag with his gully knife. He’d made a thorough job of the stabbing, the oil wouldn’t have to last for long, and the more they had over the surface of the sea the easier would be their passage through the surf. He passed the oil-bag over the bows, let some more of the warp pass through his hands, then tied it securely to the mast thwart.
They hadn’t taken all the beaching precautions a moment too soon. The surf had been much nearer fifty than two hundred and fifty yards, and already they were almost on it. Carefully, expertly, making the fullest possible use of the oars, steering oar and sea anchor, Nicolson slowly backed the lifeboat on to the beginning of the smooth convexity of the swell of the surf. Almost immediately the boat picked up speed, rose and rode in swiftly with the giant wave as the oars came out of the water and McKinnon pulled the tripping line of the sea-anchor, sped along smoothly and soundlessly as the surf curved its way into seething white destruction, checked suddenly as oars dipped and the tripping line was released at Nicolson’s sharp command, then plunged over the breaking crest of the surf and raced in to the shelving beach in a phosphorescent smother of foam and spray — there had been no time for the sea to carry the oil so far ahead — with the bar-taut anchor warp holding the stern pointing straight in to the shore, and the white water passing them by, out-distancing them in the race for the shore. It was then and only then, when the worst was safely by, that Nicolson, peering intently astern, saw something that shouldn’t have been there. His hoarse shout of warning came almost on the instant of recognition, but it came too late.
The jagged rock — or maybe it was a knife-edge of coral — sliced the bottom out of the rushing boat, from the stern clear back to the bows. The jarring, braking shock jerked people free from their clutching handholds, flung them in headlong confusion, all arms and bodies and legs, towards the stern, and hurled two or three over the side into the water. A second later the wrecked boat slewed violently to the side and overturned, catapulting everyone into the seething afterwash of the surf.
Of the seconds that followed no one had afterwards any more than a confused, inchoate recollection, a recollection of being rolled over and over by the surging sea, of swallowing sea-water and scrambling to their feet on the shingly, shelving beach only to be knocked down and buffeted by the inverted lifeboat, scrambling to their feet again to have their legs sucked from under them by the retreating seas, struggling upright again and wading, staggering ashore to fling themselves down on the beach in gasping, heart-pounding exhaustion.
Nicolson made three trips to the beach altogether. The first was with Miss Plenderleith. The shock of the collision had flung her hard against him even as they went over the stern, and he had instinctively tightened his arm round her as they had gone to the bottom together. She had been almost twice the weight he had expected, she had both her forearms locked through the handles of her heavy canvas travelling bag, and resisted Nicolson’s efforts to tear it away with what he could only imagine to be a strength — an unreasoning suicidal strength — born of fear and panic. But he had got her ashore somehow, still grimly clutching her bag, waited his chance for the receding surf, then plunged back into the sea to help Vannier carry the captain ashore. Findhorn hadn’t wanted assistance, he kept on repeating that he didn’t want assistance, but his legs and his strength had gone as a result of his wound and the suffering of the past week, and he would have drowned where he had lain, in a couple of feet of water. Slipping, stum bling, falling and getting up again, they had carried him ashore bodily and dumped him on the shingle beyond the reach of the waves.
By now there were almost a dozen of them clustered in a tight knot on the beach, some lying, some sitting, some standing, indistinct blurs in the darkness who gasped for breath or moaned or retched sea-water in convulsive agony. Chest heaving and gasping for breath himself, Nicolson started to take a quick roll-call of those present. But he didn’t even get beyond the first name.
“Gudrun. Miss Drachmann!” There was no reply, just the moaning and the painful retching. “Miss Drachmann! Has anyone seen Miss Drachmann? Has anyone got Peter?” There was only silence. “For God’s sake, somebody answer! Has anyone seen Peter? The little boy? Has anyone seen him?” But there was only the sullen boom of the surf, the rustling shirr of the retreating sea dragging the shingle down the beach.
Nicolson dropped to his knees, felt the forms and faces of those who were lying on the beach. No Peter there, no Gudrun Drachmann. He jumped to his feet, knocked staggering someone who was standing in his way and rushed madly down into the sea, plunged out into the water and was knocked off his feet by the surge of the incoming surf. He was on his feet again like a cat, all his exhaustion gone as if it had never existed. He was vaguely conscious of someone plunging into the sea behind him but paid no attention.
Six running, splashing steps at the full stretch of his legs and something struck him with cruel, numbing force against the knee-caps. The boat, drifting upside down. He somersaulted in mid-air, struck his shoulder against the