A Flock of Ships

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The ship had lain there for many years — Ten? Fifteen? Maybe even twenty? One of the old pre-war cargo liners with her high, straight stack and the strangely antiquated vertical lines of her midships accommodation. From nearly two miles away at the entrance to the island’s inner lake it was hard to make out detail but it looked as though she was slightly down by the head, while there was an odd, untidy geometry in the ragged shape of her wheelhouse and bridge structure.

Which was very odd indeed, because this island hadn’t been visited for well over a century — or so the Navigator’s South and West Africa Pilot book said.

From his post in the bows of the slowly moving R.N. survey ship the First Lieutenant took one disbelieving glance and muttered, ‘Jesus!’ Farther aft the Commander — concentrating only on conning his ship through the narrow gap between the towering, nerve tensioning black cliffs that pressed in on either side — didn’t notice anything strange until, one hundred and ten seconds later, the bridge also broke out into the blinding South Atlantic sunlight that swamped down over the hitherto uncharted inland sea. He, too, stared for an incredulous moment at the ship that couldn’t be there and grabbed for the 8 x 50 Ministry of Defence (Navy) binoculars slung round his neck.

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