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cockleshell? Sending him back to Europe would be sending him to certain death
at the hands of a mob. Only a pronounced American accent had kept him free to
act at Brest. It had worked well enough as long as he had dollars to spend
freely, but he had felt his welcome vanishing toward the end, swallowed up by
the flood of bad news and mounting suspicions.
He did have an Irish name.
Fair play had never been a French strong point, he thought, but fair play
might still exist among English-speaking seafarers. Some of that ancient
camaraderie of the sea should hold, especially under present circumstances:
the steel-ship sailor's romantic admiration for the wind sailor. The angry
words he had blared at them could be ascribed to his Irishness and the
personal tragedy they must believe he had suffered.
As far as these Barrier Command people were concerned, his condition was
simply stated: To hell or to Ireland. And they would not be able to avoid
the fact. The unwritten law of the sea would be in their thoughts, at least
unconsciously.
Any port in a storm.
And when had there been such a storm as the plague shaking their world at this
very moment?
The rating reappeared at the hatch, his loud hailer directed at John.
"What was your port of departure?"
The question told John he was winning. "Jersey," he lied.
"Have you had contact with the plague?"
"How the hell would I know?"
John lowered his loud hailer and waited. The rating could be seen bending his
head to listen to someone behind him, then: "Stand by one! We are putting
over a small boat to tow you into Kinsale."
John allowed himself a deep sigh. He felt drained. He restored the loud
hailer to its cradle under his seat.
Presently, a derrick boom tracked out of the hatch where the rating had stood.
It carried a motor launch in the same dull gray as the unrusted parts of the
ship's side. The launch swayed crazily, then was steadied by boat hooks. The
boom extended to its limit. John heard the faint rumble and whine of the
winch as the launch slid downward to stop just above the wave tops. Men
appeared on the launch's deck. They moved purposefully to the cable hooks.
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Suddenly, the launch plunged into a wave trough. Water splashed around it and
the launching tackle swung clear. The small boat surged away from the light
cruiser's side in a widely curved white wake. John watched the coxswain at
the tiller. The man shaded his eyes against the spray as he swung his boat
into position about thirty meters upwind and dropped the power.
The launch was a low craft with a trunk cabin. Its sides gleamed with
brass-bound ports. A lieutenant came out of the trunk cabin and pointed a
loud hailer at John. Men on the bow readied a small rocket launcher with a
line.
"We will shoot a line aboard you," the lieutenant called. "Keep your
distance. Does your engine work at all?"
John lifted his own loud hailer. "Sometimes."
"We will cast you free within the bay," the lieutenant shouted. "If your
engine starts, proceed to the yacht pier in the south arm. Tie up at the pier
and leave your boat immediately. We will sink it before returning. If your
engine does not work, you'll have to swim for it."
John retrieved his loud hailer and directed it at the lieutenant. "Aye, aye!"
"When you are under way in tow, drop your sails," the lieutenant called. "If
you fall overboard we will not pick you up. Signify that you understand."
"Affirmative."
A sailor crouched in the lee of the launch's cabin steadied himself, raised
the launcher, aimed and shot the line neatly under John's boom. John lashed
his tiller and carried the line forward where he made it fast to the bitt. He
waited for the towline to pull his boat around, then lowered his sails and
lashed them loosely before returning to the cockpit.
The cold breeze hit him as they swept out of the light cruiser's protection.
In spite of the chill, John felt sweaty. The wind set him to shivering. The
surge and pull of the towline had his stomach upset within a mile. He coughed
in the stink of the launch's exhaust. Only the coxswain was visible there
standing in the stern, the tiller held in his left hand.
It began to grow dark as they cleared the Old Head of Kinsale. John noted
that there were no lights of habitation along the shore. The light cruiser
keeping pace with them farther out was ablaze with light, though, and John
could see the radar antenna sweeping around and around.
John wedged himself into a corner of the cockpit, wondering now how he would
be greeted onshore. He had only the O'Donnell identification. It lay in a
small shoulder bag just inside the sloop's cabin, nestling there with a
Belgian automatic he had bought in Brest, a spartan supply of dried food, a
change of clothing and an emergency medical kit he had bought on the Brest
black market.
To the north, John could begin to see the glow of other ships, their lights
bright against the lowering gray darkness. The six-second bunker at Bulman
came into view as they rounded the Old Head. A spotlight on the launch's
cabin came on and John could see the signal flashing of it in the glow that
bathed the boat's bow. An answering light came blinking from Hangman's Point.
The launch held to the left directly into the mouth of Kinsale Harbour,
picking up speed now as it went with the incoming tide.
John saw the marker light below the ruins of Charles's Fort off to starboard,
one of the landmarks he had memorized. It was full dark now but a sliver of
moon gave enough light to show the dark shoreline sweeping past. He felt the
turn as they rounded into the south arm of the bay and there was the light at
the Customs quay and the town pier. John stood up, steadying himself against
the boom. The tow slackened, almost spilling him. The lights of the launch
swept past him on the left and it took up station behind. Abruptly, a long
row of brilliant lights came on along the pier.
The launch's loud hailer blared: "Clear away the towline before starting your
engine."
John scrambled forward, hauled in the wet line and left it tangled on the
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foredeck. Wet and cold, he crawled back to the cockpit and uncovered the
engine, working in the dim glow of the single six-volt bulb in the
compartment. He could see the tide race sweeping him toward the pier. The
former owner of the sloop had demonstrated the engine once. John primed it,
set the throttle and choke, then pulled the starter line.
Nothing.
He pulled again. The engine balked, backfired, then caught. Exhaust fumes
drifted across the cockpit.
The loud hailer behind him bawled: "Dock at the float below the pier. Make
it quick."
John eased in the clutch and the little engine began to labor, bringing the
bow around. It was slow going after the launch but the float was close dead
ahead. He realized there were armed men standing along the pier above the
float and more armed men on the float. Men caught the sloop as it grated
against the landing.
"Leave your engine running," one of them ordered.
"Right."
John took his knapsack from the cabin and leaped onto the float. One of the
men there grabbed his arm to steady him, but John felt no friendliness in the
gesture.
As though they had done this many times before, the men made fast a line to
the sloop's stern, swung the bow around until it pointed out into the bay.
One of the men jumped aboard, lashed the tiller and engaged the clutch. White
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