Page 61 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘I think you’ll find it’s different when you’re out on it in a small boat.’

She gave him a pleasant smile. ‘Are you refusing to accompany me, Mr Smith? Shall I have to go alone?’

A spot of vexation bloomed in his alabaster cheek, but he said calmly, ‘I am instructed to take you wherever you want, ma’am. I merely warn you about the discomforts you risk.’

‘Thank you. I am warned. Shall we go?’

Truman Smith called a cab and instructed it to take them to Gunwharf Quays, where he left her with Trump to enjoy the view while he dickered with a weather-beaten type for a trip on a large four-oared wooden boat. When negotiations were complete, he escorted her to the steps and helped her down into it, and she smiled gaily at the two Guernsey-clad salts, with their caps and clay pipes, to show them she was not in the least afraid. Smith handed Trump to her, climbed down and seated himself beside her, and they pushed off.

As soon as they were clear of the wharf and out into the harbour, the movement of the boat picked up; and as a cloud crossed the sun at that moment, giving the sea a less gay look, Nina began to have misgivings, and wished she was on a much larger vessel, or better still back on dry land. After all, she’d seen pictures of Victory, hadn’t she? She didn’t need to go out there. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she’d changed her mind, but she wouldn’t give Truman the satisfaction. And, indeed, she didn’t feel seasick. It was only that the water was much closer to her than she liked, and the boat seemed more flimsy than it had looked from the wharf.

She sought to distract herself. ‘Why do they row backwards?’ she asked her companion.

‘I believe they get more traction that way,’ Truman said indifferently. ‘Don’t worry, they’re quite used to it.’

‘I can see that,’ Nina said. She had observed how the one further from her, at the pointed end, looked over his shoulder from time to time and gave instructions to his partner: ‘Pull starboard, Jed. Pull both.’

Jed shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth to remark, ‘Little feller’s enjoying isself, miss.’

For an instant Nina thought he was talking about Truman, then realised he meant Trump, who had his forefeet up on the gunwale and was looking about with keen interest, whiskers bristling and nose twitching rapidly at the new smells. A small, graceful sailing boat went past them in the other direction, and he barked at it joyfully. He wriggled under the wooden plank seat on which she and Truman were sitting to get to the square end of the boat and bark at it some more.

‘Why don’t we have a sail?’ she asked. ‘Wouldn’t it be quicker, and save these gentlemen some of the hard work?’

‘Not with this wind. It’s dead foul for the direction we’re going,’ Truman said tersely.

‘You know a lot about boats,’ she said, thinking flattery might unbend him a little.

‘I grew up in Chichester,’ he said – which, as she didn’t know Chichester, was no answer at all.

‘I’ve never been in one before,’ she said. He gave her a look that said plainly, ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ and she lapsed into silence.

More clouds had blown up, cutting off the sunshine, and the sea was now a grey-green-brown colour that was much less jolly. The further they went the livelier the water became. She held on to the seat under her with both hands as a naughty wave went under them and nodded her back and forth; but she could tell that none of the three men with her was in the least concerned, so she concentrated on looking around at the harbour buildings and the other shipping. Seeing this, the lead oarsman kindly took to pointing out things to her, or at least to naming things he jerked his head towards, since he couldn’t free a hand to point.

A much bigger ship was now coming towards them, one with a smokestack as well as a mast. It looked grim and black and businesslike – no pleasure craft, for sure. The lead oarsman looked over his shoulder and warned Jed, who said, ‘Hero. Used to be tender t’th’ gunnery school. Gorn into dockyard reserve now.’

Truman Smith perked up. ‘Oh, I’ve read a bit about her. She was one of the early ironclads. Supposed to be able to ram enemy ships without sustaining any damage, but they never tested the theory. What’s she used for these days?’

‘She bin in anchor trials, sir. Testin’ stockless anchors for the navy.’

‘What’s a stockless anchor?’ Nina asked absently, noticing the waves growing steeper as the ship approached and disturbed the water with its weight and speed. She had to hold on as they bounced violently up and down. She smelt the bitter reek of smoke, saw the dash past of the iron sides, saw men up on the ship’s bridge, felt the beat of its engine. She was thrown vertically by one especially wild bounce, breaking her grip on the plank seat. Both oarsmen were looking over their shoulders now, gauging the movement of the waves and their response to it. She looked over her own shoulder to check that Trump was all right.

He wasn’t there.

She ducked her head to look under the seats, thinking he’d taken shelter; twisted and peered more frantically, then clutched at Truman’s hand and cried, ‘My dog! My dog’s gone! He must have gone overboard!’ Truman repeated her actions. She cried to the oarsman, ‘Stop! Oh, stop! We must go back!’

They were doing something to the oars, which meant they were not going forward any more, but holding more or less in one spot. The black steamship with her yellow superstructure and belching chimney churned on indifferently. Jed looked at Truman for instructions.

‘Turn around!’ Nina cried. ‘Turn around! We must go back!’

‘Pull starboard, Jed,’ said the lead oarsman, and the boat began baulkily to turn.

Nina tried to stand up, the better to scan the water, but the boat rocked wildly and Jed made an inarticulate protest. Truman caught her wrist and pulled her back. ‘Steady, you’ll go over. Sit down. We’re going back.’

Nina woke in the middle of the night to a feeling of heaviness and shock, and after an instant of blessed amnesia she remembered. The same image came to her that she had fallen asleep with, of her little dog struggling madly in the water.

The image came from her imagination only. There had been no sign of him. They had rowed up and down for almost an hour, long after it was clear the oarsmen thought it was pointless. Back on shore, Truman had parted with coins and handed out business cards to every boatman and idler on the wharf to look out for the dog, and to pass the word around, in case he was picked up or managed to swim to shore. Later, Mr Cowling had sent him out again to report the loss at the police station and to the harbour master, promising a reward for the dog’s return, or for news.

Everything had been done that could be done. But Nina had heard Truman say to Cowling that the dog was probably overwhelmed by the churn as the steamship passed and would have drowned right away. Was it better to think that he died instantly than that he had struggled on, trying to find her, a tiny white head above the water in the vastness of the great harbour, until exhaustion overcame him? Probably. But dead was dead. Her little dog! Grief was compounded with guilt. She should have looked after him. She should not have taken him on the boat. She was to blame. It was bitter.