It sounded a pretty sensible idea. I had never seen any Italian drink other than Vermouth displayed in shop windows and yet thousands of men had come back talking of Strega and Marsala, Lacrima Cristi and Frascati and Aurum. Housewives were bound to fall for it.
‘Another thing,’ Stuart said, ‘I’ve buttoned up our agreement. We’re now a private limited company. Our capital is 10,000 fully paid £1 shares — you own 5,000 and I own 5,000. The entire share capital is represented by one item, the ship. I’ve called ourselves Cunningham and McCrae Ltd. I’ll fix up the wine side of the business as soon as I get back to London. We’ll call it Fosdyk and Coy., Ltd. — that’s my pal’s name — and the shares will be in three equal lots.’
The next morning he was away, taking Boyd with him, and Dugan and I got on with the refitting. Within a fortnight we’d nothing to do but paint and build in wardroom and mess fittings and bunks. When the painting was done and I had painted the name Trevedra on her sides and stern, I went down on to the sands at high tide and took her photo with a camera I had acquired. I wanted the picture for Sarah.
I wired Stuart that we were ready to sail when he gave the word and then had a final orgy of spending, chiefly on bridge equipment — an Aldis signalling lamp, a set of flags, a megaphone, glasses, and, most expensive item of all, radio equipment. The following day I called at the Post Office and found Stuart’s reply waiting for me. It read — ‘Arrange arrival morning twenty-seventh end coast road Littlestone dash Dungeness Ack.’
I acknowledged and then returned to the Trevedra. At the flood that afternoon we winched her off on the hook which we’d carried well out several days before. Then we slipped into the Docks and returned all the gear we’d borrowed. We fuelled and watered and then had one last night ashore. Slater had found me two sailors on leave who wanted a lift along the coast and with this temporary addition to our crew we sailed for Dungeness the next morning.
The sea was calm and we were off Dungeness light as the sun rose over the bows. The Bedfords were ready waiting on the coast readjust where it turns inland a few hundred yards short of the Pilot Inn. Through the glasses I saw Stuart coming down on to the beach waving to me and I ran straight in, dropping the hook about half-a-cable’s length from the shore. She beached with a grating crash. I dropped the bow door and we made fast with ground anchors.
I said goodbye to my temporary crew and within an hour we had four of the Bedfords, loaded to the canopy with crates of cigarettes, stowed and lashed. The fifth was full of spares and had to be backed in, off-loaded and taken back to the farm for more. She did four trips before the barn was cleared. But at last we had her stowed and I got the bow anchor in and raised the door. We winched her out and when the hook was up I went up on to the bridge and headed the ship down Channel.
Boyd was at the wheel and Stuart joined me on the bridge. ‘Just been having a look round,’ he said. ‘Nice job you’ve done.’
I didn’t say anything and nor did he after that. We just stood and smoked, watching the water slip past and listening to the rhythmic chug of the engines and the slap of the waves against the blunt bows. We were both of us feeling that life was very good. We had achieved something. We had a ship and a cargo. The weather was fair and we were outward bound. We were traders — and I thought back down the long line of British traders and felt a surge of satisfaction that I was one of them.
We got a holding chain made fast round the bow door and double-lashed the cargo and loose gear. I was taking no chances with the weather in the Bay of Biscay. By sundown the Isle of Wight had disappeared in the gathering dusk from the east and we were out of sight of land, heading for Ushant in a long Atlantic swell.
CHAPTER FIVE
The weather was fair and we made a steady eight knots. Dugan and Boyd split the engine-room duties and Stuart and I the watches and wheel duty. The Bay was placid and by the morning of the third day we were running down the coast of Portugal. It began to get hot.
That night there occurred something that had a bearing on what happened later. Darkness came out of a cloudless sky. Stuart and I were on the bridge, smoking and watching the stars. The sea was almost glassy and only a slight vibration and the sound of the engines told us that we were moving. The night air was warm with the promise of heat from the desert sands of Africa.
‘We should pick up the light of Cape Vincent soon,’ I said. I switched the light on in the covered chart recess and checked our position. According to my reckoning we were due to change course in another half-hour from south to south-east to make the Straits.
‘There’s a ship dead ahead of us,’ Stuart said.
I took my head out of the recess and gazed into the starlit night. At first I could see nothing. But as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness after the glare of the chart table light, I made out the dim shape of a small ship.
‘Looks like a schooner,’ Stuart added, passing the glasses across to me. ‘She’s no sails and she’s without lights.’
I took the glasses. It was a schooner all right, of the type that do much of the coastal trade round Spain and Italy. As I watched her a froth of white appeared at her stern. She had got her auxiliary going. Sails fluttered up clothing her bare masts and drawing fitfully in the light breeze. She began to move across our bows as we bore down on her.
I edged the wheel up and the bows came round until we were heading straight for her again. ‘I am closing her to see why she is without lights,’ I told Stuart.
He nodded, but made no comment. He was tapping his teeth with his pipe and gazing for’ard at the rapidly looming shape.
When we were about a cable’s-length away the schooner suddenly stopped her engines. Her sails dropped limply from her masts leaving them bare as they had been before. ‘Stop both,’ I ordered the engine-room. In the sudden quiet the sound of the water creaming before the thrusting bows was very loud. I switched on the loud-hailer. ‘Ahoy, there!’ I called. ‘What ship is that?’
Back come the reply in Spanish. The voice was the voice of a man who was very excited.
‘Perche non avete luce?” I asked, trying him in simple Italian.
There was no reply.
We were close alongside now and I switched on the bridge spotlight. The deck of the schooner was littered with wine barrels below the fallen sails. The captain, short, dark-haired and thin-faced, stood at the rail watching us intently. ‘Che e vostra — what’s the word for cargo?’ Stuart asked me.
‘Cos portate nella barca?’ I called out.
There followed a stream of Spanish which was quite unintelligible. It ended with the words, ”Vino, caballero, solo vino.” ‘Perche non avete la luce?’ I demanded again.
Another flood of Spanish from which I gathered his dynamo had broken down. But there was a gleam of electric light from the companionway.
‘Better push on, David,’ Stuart said. ‘He’s up to no good. I’ll bet it’s not wine in those barrels. But it’s none of our business and even if it were we couldn’t do anything about it.’
‘Okay,’ I said. I put the microphone of the loud-hailer to my mouth. ‘Accendete luce,’ I said menacingly, and then to the engine-room, ‘Slow ahead both.’
As we gathered way the sea creamed at his stern and the little schooner made off in the opposite direction. Obviously he thought we were a naval ship.
‘What do you reckon he was up to?’ I asked Stuart. ‘He was lying about his electric light being out of order. Anyway, he had oil storm lamps which he could have lit.’
Stuart shrugged his shoulders. ‘Contraband,’ he said. ‘Possibly arms. There must be a lot of that going on round the Mediterranean. Think of the vast quantities of arms and equipment we lost in North Africa and Italy. Incidentally,’ he added. ‘I didn’t tell you, but we had an offer to go into the arms running racket ourselves.’