13

Out at sea, the swell was greater than the fishermen had expected. Though they were trying to stay as close to the coast as possible, an offshore wind, combined with an ebb tide was proving too much for the tiny engine of Geordie’s lobster boat, meaning their progress was slow: three lurches to the side, one forward.

‘If we carry on like this, we’ll be taking Marshall tae the hospital in Newfoundland, Geordie,’ said Hamish, as an unexpected wave sent a shower of seawater into his face and extinguished his pipe with a gentle hiss.

‘This old girl’s jeest designed tae go oot in the bay and collect creels. She’s no’ an ocean-going liner. Once we’re roon’ the Mull, the conditions should improve.’

They had wrapped Marshall in woollen blankets taken from the bothy, under which he mumbled and moaned. His bandage was now stained a deep red.

‘This fella’s still bleeding, though it’s no’ as bad as it was,’ said Hoynes. He had put on an oilskin jacket and a Sou’wester he had found under a bench seat on the boat. The garments stank, but at least he wasn’t getting soaked by the spray like Hamish, who was cursing as he frantically tried to relight his pipe.

‘There’s the Cat Rock,’ shouted Geordie. ‘Once we’ve weathered that, it’s plain sailing.’

The little boat was caught by a wave, cresting the top of the swell and then plummeting down into the trough it had created. There was a sharp clunk, then what sounded like a dry piece of wood being broken in two.

‘I hope that’s no’ whoot I think it is,’ shouted Hoynes.

‘It’s the bloody rudder,’ said Geordie. ‘Look at this.’ He spun the boat’s wheel, to no effect.

‘I’m betting there’s no radio aboard this craft, neither,’ said Hamish.

Geordie shrugged. ‘I told you I jeest potter about in the bay. There’s never been the need for a radio. If you lift the lid on that chest, you’ll find a flare or two.’

Hamish did as he was asked, and the bright orange flare rent the dark sky above them as they drifted out to sea like a cork in a bath.

‘We should be thankful for small mercies,’ remarked Hoynes. ‘At least we’re not being driven ontae the Mull.’

‘But the Barrel rocks are no’ that far off,’ countered Hamish. ‘And if we’re lucky enough tae avoid them, we’ll no miss the coast o’ County Antrim.’

‘My, but you’re the cheery one, Hamish. Every craft within ten miles o’ here will have seen that flare. I’d be surprised if the Ballycastle lifeboat isn’t preparing tae make way, as we speak.’ His words were lost as a wave crashed over the vessel, drenching all aboard.

‘Well, they better get here quick,’ shouted Geordie, ‘or we’ll be having oor supper wae Davy Jones.’

‘The next time I’m foolish enough tae listen tae one o’ your schemes, Hamish, be sure tae gie me a skelp in the chops an’ tell me tae brighten up,’ said Hoynes, huddling down beside the recumbent figure of Marshall.

‘Och, you can hardly blame me! How was I tae know the forces o’ nature an’ the state were going tae unite against us?’

‘Aye, well, they sure have. Not only are we in the midst o’ one o’ the worst seasons for fish that anyone can remember, we’ve been accused o’ smuggling whisky, almost killed an officer o’ the Crown, and now we’re in danger o’ sinking.’

‘No tae mention that octopus,’ said Hamish. ‘I should’ve known that landing a creature like thon wid mean bad luck.’

‘Bad luck’s something we’ve a sufficiency of, that’s for sure,’ said Hoynes, as the boat plummeted into another trough. ‘Time tae start sayin’ oor prayers, I reckon.’

‘I started saying mine as soon as the polis, the Excise man, and the Fishery Officer came knocking at the door,’ confessed Geordie.

‘Wait!’ shouted Hoynes as they were propelled back up by the swell. ‘There’s a vessel on the horizon. Quick, Hamish, launch another one o’ they flares.’

Jackie MacKinnon was about to tuck into a plate of lamb chops and mashed potatoes when an insistent knocking sounded on the farmhouse door.

‘Jean,’ he yelled to his wife, who was still in the kitchen, ‘can you see who on earth’s at the door at this time? I’m no’ wanting tae eat cauld chops.’

He heard his wife making her way along the hall, grumbling as she went, and then the familiar creak as the old front door was tugged open.

A scream from his wife sent Mackinnon to his feet, cutlery crashing down on his plate with a clatter. ‘What the . . . ?’

The door to the room was flung open, to reveal a wide-eyed man covered from head to toe in mud.

‘Jackie, for the love o’ all that’s holy, you’ve got tae help me!’

It took MacKinnon a few moments to recognise Iain Watson the Fishery Officer as the man who had just collapsed face down on the floor.

‘If you’re in disguise looking for an illicit catch, you’ll no’ find it here,’ Jackie said, before resuming his place at the table and lifting his knife and fork. ‘Jean, will you come and see tae this man afore these chops congeal.’

The vessel was huge and painted scarlet. Too big to be a fishing boat – even a trawler – it steamed towards them at a rate of knots that left the fishermen aboard the stricken lobster boat scratching their heads.

‘I’ve seen some o’ they big trawlers oot o’ Hull and Grimsby, but they’re like skiffs compared tae this monster,’ said Hoynes.

‘I widna be bothered if it was the Queen Mary,’ said Hamish. ‘They’re getting us oot o’ a pretty pickle, and no mistake. Whoot flag is that at her prow, I wonder. I can make oot that it’s red, but that’s jeest aboot all.’

‘It’s no’ one o’ they new boats oot o’ Oban, is it?’ asked Geordie.

‘If it is, there’ll no’ be room for another vessel in the bay,’ opined Hoynes. ‘The Mull ferry wid look like a rowing boat moored next tae that. Aye, and as far as that flag goes, I recognise it only too well – it’s the hammer and sickle.’

‘You don’t mean the Bolsheviks, dae you, skipper?’ Hamish peered out to sea.

‘There’s no’ been Bolsheviks since thon Lenin was at the helm. They’re Communists noo, an’ a brave band o’ brothers they are, tae. We’d be well under the Nazi jackboot if it wisna for their heroics at Stalingrad, an’ the like. They gave Adolf pause for thought,’ concluded Hoynes fervently.

Geordie looked at the Russian boat and stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve got two questions. Will they take my vessel under tow, and if they do, whoot on earth will the salvage amount tae? I’ll likely have tae get doon and ask the bank manager tae gie me roubles.’

‘I widna worry aboot salvage or the like. These boys are a’ aboot sharing and equality. Commendable stuff it is, tae,’ said Hoynes.

‘You’re no’ tellin’ me you’re a red under the bed, skipper,’ said Hamish, a look of horror on his face. ‘I never had you doon for anythin’ o’ the kind.’

‘No, don’t be daft. But I mind in the war, the boys fae they Russian convoys wid come back wae tales o’ how the folk survived jeest by boiling the odd turnip and quaffing some snow. Hardy buggers – they’d have no time for Iain Watson or his like. And even less for this poor unfortunate doon here.’ He glanced across at Marshall whose face had taken on an even more pallid hue.

The Russian vessel now towered above them.

Hamish stared up, open-mouthed. ‘How are we going tae get up thonder? I hope I’ve no’ got to scale one o’ they rope ladders. I’m no’ keen on heights. That’s how I went tae sea in the first place – nice an’ near the groon’, if you know whoot I mean.’

Without warning, a door opened about halfway down the side of the craft and a head popped out. The man was wearing a black peaked cap above dark eyes and a darker beard. ‘You will want rescue, no?’ he shouted across the swell.

‘Aye, rescue wid be jeest fine,’ returned Hoynes.

‘Ask him aboot salvage,’ insisted Geordie.

‘Aye, and if he says it’s goin’ tae be a thousand pounds, dae we jeest tell them tae sail on? I’m telling you, salvage will no’ be a problem for these boys . . . Yes, we need rescue,’ shouted Hoynes. ‘Workers o’ the world unite!’ he added, for good measure.

Hamish took in the Russian boat with a jaundiced eye. ‘She’s big, but she’s a trawler, right enough. Are you thinking the same as me, skipper?’

‘That it might no’ be thon plane and its booming that’s frightened the fish, after all?’

‘This beast could pull mair oot the water in a day than oor whole fleet, an’ she’s no ring-net vessel, neither. I’m betting she’s got a sister somewhere oot tae sea.’

‘We’ll soon find oot, of that there is no doubt,’ said Hoynes. ‘For better, or for worse, Hamish. I hope they’ve got some Bolshevik baccy aboard. I left my new packet back at the bothy.’