She reined in as they approached the creek; she wasn’t sure where Deakin moored the boats. He had two, one large, one smaller, and she’d decided to use the smaller one as it would be easier to row. The mule, though, kept moving across the grass, and she gave him his head. He would know where the boats were, and besides, she could barely see a hand in front of her. The cloud was thick and dark, heavy with rain. Eventually the animal stopped beside a wooden bollard where presumably Deakin tied him up, and sure enough a long rope was attached to it and this she used to secure him, giving him plenty of space to graze.
She walked along the bank to try to identify Deakin’s boats. He’d sold his original and bought two others, then sold those and bought two more, but she’d never seen them, nor had he ever told her what names he’d given them. Then she saw a white-painted bollard with two sailboats attached by a long mooring line which stopped them from bumping into each other; one, larger than the other, was held by two anchors and the smaller boat by only one and she hazarded a guess that they might be his. The smaller boat carried a pair of oars attached to the rowlocks and that decided her. I can manage a boat that size without any difficulty at all, she thought, filled with confidence now that her goal was almost reached.
Yet it was much harder than she’d anticipated as she hauled the boat towards her and wrapped the mooring rope tighter to the bollard before dragging Deakin towards it. ‘Oh! What if I drop him in the water,’ she moaned. ‘What’ll I do then?’ But she didn’t drop him and she stood in the swaying boat and pulled and pulled him from the bank by his feet and legs until she thought her arms would loosen in their sockets and over the bulwark he came, landing with a thud in the stern.
She sat for a moment to get her breath back and thought that now she only had to carry the brandy over and the sacks to cover Deakin’s body, unfasten the mooring rope, haul up the anchor and then they’d be away. He’ll have to stay in the stern, she decided; she was spent and had no more strength to move him for’ard.
The rain was lessening but the wind becoming stronger, and she reckoned that once in the Humber the boat would be carried swiftly towards the estuary mouth. She brought the brandy and the sacks, staggering now with tiredness, and covered Deakin up so that apart from his boot-clad feet nothing else of him showed; she freed the mooring rope, letting it hang loose, and determining that she was ready began to haul up the anchor, casting a glance at the mule grazing steadily on the muddy bank.
She felt the boat move before she’d stowed the anchor so left it where it was beside Deakin and grabbed the oars ready to push away from the bank and the other vessels that were moored there. It wasn’t a very long or wide creek but it was still pitch dark, and there was nothing to identify where she was or what hazards if any were in front of her. She felt the bumps and knocks as they crashed into other boats.
Then she felt the strength and power of the undertow beneath her and the boat began to pitch and roll; she knew she must keep her wits about her when she reached the estuary or she’d miss the jetty, which she must steer towards if she were to get out of the boat safely before the surge bore her away.
The swell of the current caught them, swinging the boat in the direction of the Humber mouth, and she panicked as the oars were almost snatched from her grasp. She pulled hard towards the lee bank, peering into the darkness for signs of habitation and seeing none, and rode on, the wind at her back, until suddenly they were past the Pier House jetty and heading in the direction of the old pub and the landing stage.
‘Stop, stop, I must get off,’ she shouted in her terror as the swift tide took hold, too strong for her to fight, and she saw the white-painted building stand out in the darkness like a beacon as they were carried past it. ‘No. No! I must get off,’ but the oars were useless against the spate and she felt the vessel being pulled towards the middle of the estuary and the shipping lane.
‘This is all your fault, Deakin,’ she screamed. ‘This is your fault, not mine, and I should never have agreed to come with you,’ forgetting completely that for reasons of her own she too had had to get away from her home haven so many years ago – a time which for some reason seemed like only yesterday.
‘Mebbe when we get near Cherry Cobb Sands we’ll get stuck on the marsh land, or mebbe at Keyingham, or Sunk Island; lots of sandbanks there.’ She was babbling, she’d heard of these places but had never been, but fear was making her desperate as she abandoned the oars and lay down in the prow of the boat; she saw the tall white lighthouse as they passed and then sat up as she saw flames lighting up the night sky just beyond it.
The surge was getting stronger and the boat rocked and dipped and waves washed over it and she had nothing to bail with but her bare hands; then suddenly there was light and she turned and saw lights behind her. What’s this? She was confused. Navigational lights? Were they on ship or shore? They were getting brighter, coming closer. A ship. Or a barge. She stood up and waved her arms.
‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Can’t you see us? Help! Don’t run us down!’
The barge, laden
