Signals of Distress

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BOTH MEN were en voyage and sleeping in their berths. Hard winds swept in and put their ships ashore.

The coastal steampacket, Ha’porth of Tar, on which Aymer Smith had his cabin, had lifted before the wind that night as if it meant to leave the water and find a firmer passage in the clouds. It arrived at dawn off Wherrytown, hastened by the storm on its short journey along the Channel. Ten in the morning was its scheduled time of arrival. Dawn was too early for the harbour lightermen to be at work. No one with any sense was up and out in such a wind. The night was wild and cold. A few miles down the coast from Wherrytown, the Cradle Rock, which normally would take the efforts of two strong men before it began to seesaw on its pivot stone, teetered, fluctuated, rocked from just the muscle of the gale.

The Tar shipped heavy seas as it came into harbour. There was no choice but for the five-man crew to still its paddles and shut its fires. Its passage in the wind was more temperamental — and less pontificating — than its progress under steam. The Tar was thrown against the harbour boom, and then against the channel buoys which marked the vessel’s road. The wind pushed north. The tide tugged south. The Tar was only fifty yards from shore. Two sailors had to land a line by rowboat and secure the ship to capstans on the quay. And then they had to coax the Tar to dock. Aymer lay awake. He wasn’t any use on deck. His shoulder hurt from where he’d fallen from his bunk. The muscles in his throat and stomach ached from vomiting. His breath was foul. His temper, too. He should have travelled overland with the company carts, he decided. He should have stayed at home instead of meddling abroad.

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