The Wreck of the Mary Deare Read Online Free Page B

ship had occurred between nine and ten the previous night, probably just as the mist was closing in.
    Checking back through the log I found nothing to suggest that the ship would have to be abandoned. There had been constant gales and they had taken a bad beating. But that was all.
Hove-to on account of dangerous seas, waves sometimes breaking against bridge. Making water in No. 1 hold. Pumps not holding their own
. That entry for March 16 was the worst. Wind strength was given as Force 11 for twelve solid hours. And before then, ever since they had left the Mediterranean through the Straits, the wind had never fallen below Force 7, which is moderate gale, and was several times recorded as Force 10, whole gale. The pumps had been kept going all the time.
    If they had abandoned ship in the gale of March 16 it would have been understandable. But the log showed that they had rounded Ushant on the morning of March 18 in clear weather with seas moderate and the wind Force 3. There was even a note—
Pumps making good headway. Clearing wreckage and repairing Number One hatch cover
.
    It didn’t make sense.
    A companion-way led to the upper or boat-deck level. The door to the captain’s cabin was open. The room was neat and tidy, everything in its place; no sign of hurried departure. From the desk a girl’s face in a big silver frame smiled at me, her fair hair catching the light, and across the bottom of the picture she had scrawled:
For Daddy—Bons voyages, and come back soon. Love—Janet
. There was coal dust on the frame and more of it on the desk and smudged over a file of papers that proved to be the cargo manifest, showing that the
Mary Deare
had loaded cotton at Rangoon on January 13 and was bound for Antwerp. On top of a filing tray filled with papers were several air mail letter-cards slit open with a knife. They were English letter-cards post-marked London and they were addressed to Captain James Taggart,
s.s. Mary Deare
at Aden, addressed in the same uneven, rather rounded hand that had scrawled across the bottom of the photograph. And below the letters, amongst the mass of papers, I found report sheets written in a small, neat hand and signed James Taggart. But they only covered the voyage from Rangoon to Aden. On the desk beside the tray was a sealed letter addressed to Miss Janet Taggart, University College, Gower Street, London, W.C. 1. It was in a different hand and the envelope was unstamped.
    All those little things, those little homely details . . . I don’t know how to express it—they added up to something, something I didn’t like. There was that cabin, so quiet, with all the decisions that had driven the ship throughout her life still there in the atmosphere of it—and the ship herself silent as the grave. And then I saw the raincoats hanging on the door, two blue Merchant Navy officers’ raincoats hanging side by side, the one much bigger than the other.
    I went out and slammed the door behind me, as though by closing it I could shut away my sudden, unreasoned fear. ‘Ahoy! Is there anyone on board?’ My voice, high and hoarse, echoed through the vaults of the ship. The wind moaned at me from the deck. Hurry! I must hurry. All I had to do was check the engines now, decide whether we could get her under way.
    I stumbled down the dark well of a companion-way, following the beam of my torch, flashing it through the open doorway of the saloon where I had a glimpse of places still laid and chairs pushed hastily back. A faint smell of burning lingered on the musty air. But it didn’t come from the pantry—the fire was out, the stove cold. My torch focused on a half-empty tin of bully lying on the table. There was butter, cheese, a loaf of bread with the crust all covered in coal dust; coal dust on the handle of the knife that had been used to cut it, coal dust on the floor.
    â€˜Is there anybody about?’ I yelled. ‘Ahoy! Anyone