Isvik Read online

  He made no answer, striding on ahead. We reached the first of the huts and the moon slipped behind the black bulk of a cloud. The wind rattled the panes in a broken window, a door creaked – stage effects that included the winged shadow of a bird taking off into the night. There was a padlock on the door, but the hasp was broken and Iain pushed his way in, the beam of his torch stabbing out to show rusting iron beds stacked against the far wall. The only windows were either side of the door through which we had entered. At the far end was a shower cubicle and a tin washbasin, also a stack of galvanised iron buckets. The beam swept across the walls, hesitated and steadied on the single word ‘HOY’ scratched into the cement just to the right of a curved pipe that had presumably been the smoke outlet for a stove that had been removed. I heard him sigh. ‘The poor bastards.’

  ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘Today,’ he said. ‘Hoy means today.’ He led the way out of the wind-shattered door and into the next hut. The huts were in three lines, four to each line, every hut alike and all in the same dilapidated condition. There was no barbed wire, no guardroom or jailers’ quarters, no watchtowers. And in every one of the huts we found wall scratchings: lines of poetry, cries to God – Que dios me salve or simply, Salvame – demands for justice, the names of loved ones, and always, somewhere, a calendar. Not a proper calendar, no dates, but the weeks and the months recorded and the days scratched off as they passed. En desesperación. That word desesperación appeared again and again. ‘No way out, nowhere to go – “desperation” about sums it up.’ Iain’s voice was muted, a sadness in the way he spoke.

  ‘You knew this place existed, didn’t you?’

  As before, he didn’t answer my question. He was probing with his torch, briefly checking each piece of graffiti.

  ‘You looking for something?’ I asked.

  ‘Try and remember some of the names,’ he said. ‘Somebody, somewhere, must have a list.’

  I started to write some of the names down on a scrap of paper, remembering now that Iris’s brother Eduardo had been one of the Disappeareds. But Eduardo is a common enough name, and though I found quite a few Eduardos, either they did not add any surname, or else it was the wrong one. ‘It’s like a concentration camp,’ I muttered as we were walking into the next row of huts.

  He nodded. ‘That’s probably what it was.’ And he added, ‘Let’s go and see if we can find their grave.’

  ‘Is it the Desaparecidos?’

  He led the way out, tramping in silence across the sheep-cropped grass as we circled the derelict camp. But there was no communal grave such as had been the last resting place of the gassed victims of Hitler’s concentration camps, only a few lone headstones, a wooden cross or two, that was all.

  ‘So where did they go?’

  He shrugged, standing there in the wind, the racing clouds black overhead, gazing down at the huts. Finally he turned to me. ‘You’re not to mention this to anyone. Least of all to Iris – or to Connor-Gómez when he arrives. Ah don’t want him to know we’ve seen it. Ye understand?’

  I nodded, and after staring at the huts in complete silence for another minute or so, he started back towards the beach. We were in a clear patch of sky then, the moon very bright and still, the clouds all gone and the wind getting stronger. Away to our right, clearly visible in the stark brilliance, the line of an old track slanted up across a stony hillside.

  The question in my mind, of course, was why Connor-Gómez had chosen to join ship at this Godforsaken place rather than at Ushuaia. Was it because he was persona non grata throughout Argentina? Then why send us all the way round the west side of Tierra del Fuego when, if he had joined us at Punta Arenas, we would have had a downhill run to the Falklands and South Georgia? I did my best to get an explanation out of Iain as we retraced our steps to the beach, but he just shrugged his shoulders. And when I pressed him for an answer, he finally turned on me and said, ‘Keep yer mouth shut and yer eyes open, that way ye’ll get at least some of the answers.’

  The moon had disappeared again as we reached the beach, but he didn’t use the torch and we stumbled about in the dark looking for the boat. There was more movement in the water now, the kelp sloshing about and waves actually breaking on the beach. We got pretty wet launching the inflatable and once we had poled and paddled our way out into open water we had a rough passage to the ship. ‘Remember what I said,’ he whispered to me as we made the inflatable fast and started below. ‘Ye’ll be on yer own tomorrow when ye go in to pick him up. No questions. Ye understand? Ye take everythin’ fur granted, and ye don’t provoke him – either then or in the future. Okay?’

  Sleep eluded me for a long time that night. It was blowing force 6 or 7 and the halyards frapping against the mast were a constant irritant. In a sense they matched my mood, my mind going over and over the voyage ahead, the problems that must inevitably arise with such an ill-assorted crew. And there was the question of navigation, for I had already discovered that we were at the very limit of Satnav. The satellites for this are in fixed positions directly over the equator and they move with the rotation of the earth, so that they are always conveniently sited for the big concentrations of shipping in the northern hemisphere. Down here on the edge of the Southern Ocean I was having to check the accuracy of every Satnav reading by star sights taken with the navigator’s old, reliable standby, the sextant. Isvik had all the necessary tables, of course. What I didn’t often have was a clear sight of the stars I needed.

  It worried me. But what worried me still more was the imminent arrival of Connor-Gómez and the memory of that ghastly little huddle of huts standing derelict and forlorn in the intermittent moonlight.

  I could hear Andy snoring, or was it Go-Go’s broad nostrils reverberating up for’ard? They had all been asleep when we came back from our recce ashore, but just after turning in I thought I heard Iris questioning Iain. But it was probably my imagination, the ship’s frames creaking and groaning, the halyards frapping and banging. I made a mental note to rig some lizards. I had seen some of these elastic fastenings in the store.

  There were other things I tried to make a mental note of, for one thing we had gained out of the voyage from Punta Arenas through those wild inshore waters was that it had shown up all the various things that needed to be put right, particularly the stowage of some of the gear, the stores too. It had been as good a shake-down cruise as I could have wished for.

  It rained all the following day, cold, driving rain that made work on deck a misery, and it didn’t start to ease off until late afternoon. The wind died, too, but the cloud level remained low so that even the smallest hilltops were obscured, and there was a lurid sunset. By then we were all set to go, and shortly after 23.30 I lowered myself into the inflatable. Iain leaned down over the rail. ‘We up anchor and leave the moment he’s on board.’

  ‘What about Carlos?’ I asked.

  ‘He’ll stay below.’

  ‘You mean he comes with us?’

  He turned away, but I thought I saw his left eyelid flicker as he said, ‘Remember – keep yer mouth shut.’

  I didn’t bother with the engine, and as I was settling myself to the oars, I caught the flash of a torch from the beach. He had said midnight so he was dead on time.

  Glancing over my shoulder, as I pulled into the pathway of open water between the kelp, I saw his figure standing solitary in the moonlight. There was nobody with him, but he must have had help getting his gear down to the beach, for there was quite a considerable pile of it stacked beside him.

  He greeted me by name as though we were old friends, apologised for having caused us to detour south to the Beagle Channel and hoped we had had a comfortable passage. ‘What was the wind like?’

  ‘All right,’ I said as we began humping his gear into the boat.

  ‘And the ship? What is she called – Isvik? How was Isvik?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘A good sailer? No breakings?’

  ‘No.’

 
The moon was only just risen, a baleful orb of orange red that peered at us beneath a ruler-straight line of low cloud, casting a livid light that made his face look older. Or was it strain? I flicked my torch on to him, then on the baggage. There were half a dozen cases that looked as though they were plastic. ‘Put the torch out!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Somebody may see. Put it out!’

  I started to tell him he didn’t have to worry, that the area was deserted, but then I thought better of it. The cases had buff-coloured labels stuck across their tops. I was just moving forward to examine one of them more closely when the torch was whipped out of my hand and switched off. But not before I had noticed the label on one of the cases was torn to reveal the upper half of some stencilled lettering – SEMTEX. Also the letters D A N and what looked like I V E S.

  I had also caught sight of his face, and though it was only a glimpse, I had a distinct impression of tiredness round the eyes and the skin had a muddy look. But he still managed to look elegant, even in anorak and sea boots.

  We finished loading the cases and his gear into the inflatable, and while hauling it out into water deep enough to float it, a wave slopped over the top of my sea boots. The water was ice cold. I scrambled in, picked up an oar and began to punt our way out through the kelp.

  It was hard work getting out to the ship for the wind had risen again so that the big Seagull was slamming us into a steep, white-capped sea. It was a wet ride, with the ship riding stern-on to us in silhouette against that low band of livid light. As soon as we were alongside Connor-Gómez leapt on board, not waiting for my orders, not even taking the painter with him. I had to toss the stern rope up and a wave slopped over the fabric side as the boat swung round. Iain was busy greeting him and it was Iris who made fast. Carlos was down below, of course, and Andy busy talking again to a ‘ham’ he had contacted on the Falklands.

  Standing there in the bouncing inflatable, clinging to the ship’s rail, I heard Iain inviting the man below for a welcome-aboard drink. ‘A splendid idea,’ I called out as they started to move aft to the wheelhouse door, ‘but first let’s get the gear on board.’

  Connor-Gómez turned immediately. He had caught the note of censure in my voice. ‘So sorry, my friend. Of course.’ He was smiling, the tired eyes crinkling, all the charm switched on so that his face was transformed, the mask of youthfulness back in place. Go-Go suddenly appeared to give a hand. They met at the rail and I saw him check, his face hardening abruptly, his body coming erect as though standing on tiptoe, racial dominance in every line. And then, as I introduced them, he smiled and I saw a touch of the devil I had seen in Carlos.

  ‘Her husband, Andy, is our radio operator,’ I said quickly, for I had seen her stiffen, the eyes dilating, the nostrils flaring. The instant flash of sexual awareness that passed between them was like an electric spark, and she was hating herself for it. There was something else, too, something age-old, primitive even, her body gone so taut I could see her trembling. And all the time he smiled, savouring the moment. He held out his hand. ‘So we sail into the ice together, Mrs Galvin.’

  ‘I’ll call Andy.’ She turned quickly away, and as she hurried to the wheelhouse, she said to Iris, ‘We’ll need everybody on deck to stow the inflatable and lash it down.’

  We had the welcoming drink in the main saloon, a bottle of champagne Iain said he had brought back with him specially for the occasion. ‘To our voyage.’ Ángel – it was Ángel now he was one of us – raised his glass. ‘And to our ship’s company.’ He smiled first at Iris, then at Go-Go, pointedly toasting the women. His features had smoothed out and there was colour in his cheeks. He looked suddenly handsome again, almost debonnaire.

  The bottle empty, Iain gave me a nod and took Ángel aft to show him his quarters. I changed quickly into dry socks and followed Andy up to the wheelhouse. Iris was already there, the engine ticking over and Nils up forward starting to take the slack up on the winch as we motored gently into the wind. She looked at me, a nervous smile on that full mouth of hers, but the light of excitement in her eyes. ‘Well, this is it, Pete.’

  I nodded, butterflies flickering in my stomach as I asked Andy for the latest forecast. ‘Wind,’ he said. ‘Gale force. But decreasing shortly after dawn – perhaps.’ His voice was tense, a cover I thought for nervousness. Then, on a note of almost forced gaiety, he said, ‘But I’ve just got an ice report you’ll like, mate. I been talking to an ice-breaker down by the BAS base at Halley Bay. They report they’re in open water and they’ve got print-outs from the Met. station at MPA of sat-pics that show a line of open water extending half-way round the southern end of the Weddell Sea.’

  ‘What’s an ice-breaker doing down there?’ I asked.

  ‘Thickness of ice tests. The SPRI – that’s the Scott Polar Research Institute – have been carrying out tests in the Arctic for some years. Now BAS are doing it down here in the Antarctic.’

  ‘With what result? Do they think it’s melting?’

  ‘Correct. According to the sparks feller on Polarstern – that’s the ice-breaker, not one of yours, German, a big ’un, too – they’ve been running tests for several years using sonar buoys. Testing for the effects of the destruction of the ionosphere and the hole in the ozone layer. The ice is thinner than they thought. In fact, he says the fellers at British Antarctic Survey’s Halley base reck’n it won’t be all that long before the Weddell Sea becomes open to the fishing fleets, the eastern side of it anyway.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘But that’s for the future, mate. Right now we’re dealing with the present and it looks like a dirty night.’

  ‘But you say we could have it fine tomorrow when we’ll be clear of the Beagle Channel and out of the lee of the land meeting the big seas that have rounded the Horn.’ I said it casually as though I were referring to a Channel crossing, but that wasn’t at all how I felt, for this would be a close encounter with the Horn. Very different to the Whitbread when we had been thundering along the 57th parallel, virtually in the middle of the Drake Strait.

  ‘Yep, they’ll have the whole weight of a globe-circling ocean behind them.’ He laughed a little wildly. ‘Guess I’ll go to my scratcher, get some shut-eye while I can.’

  I told him to stay and give me a hand with the squares’ls. The wind was west-sou’west, the direction indicator in front of me swinging between 220 degrees and 240 degrees. With Iris on the helm, both sails went up in quick time, and immediately afterwards Andy dived down the for’ard hatch so that after I had relieved Iris I was alone at the wheel. I cut the engine and suddenly everything was quiet, only the sound of the bows slicing through the water. I switched to autopilot and reached for the log to write up the time and position at which I had shut down the engine. ‘Where do you anchor next?’ It was Ángel peering over my shoulder at the chart.

  I finished my entry and shut the log. ‘We don’t.’ I saw the surprise on his face, the look of shock almost, and felt pleased. ‘Next stop is the Ice Shelf at the bottom of the Weddell Sea.’ I got Chart 3176 out of the drawer and opened it on the chart table. It covered almost all of the Weddell Sea, including part of that finger of Antarctica which thrusts north towards Graham Land and the Horn. ‘Now that we’re on our way perhaps you’d pencil in the position you want us to head for.’

  He didn’t say anything, just standing there beside me, breathing rather deeply as he stared down at the chart. ‘I did not understand you would be leaving like this, so immediately.’

  ‘Ice reports indicate the pack is melting early.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘If we had left direct from Punta Arenas –’

  ‘Of course.’ He straightened up. ‘You are in charge of the sailing, I understand. When do you want me on watch?’

  ‘After breakfast. You’ll then be able to get used to handling the ship in daylight before you face a night watch.’

  He nodded. ‘Then I think I go to my bunk now.’

  I held a pencil out to him. ‘Mark in our
destination and the position of the Santa Maria, will you, please. Then I can work out a rough ETA, read up on the ice conditions again and have another look at Shackleton’s South before we’re out of the Beagle Channel and into the rough stuff.’

  ‘The rough stuff! It will be bad you think?’

  ‘We’ll be jumping off the deep end as far as our sea legs are concerned.’ I tried to make my voice sound casual, but my imagination was leaping ahead to the moment when we were out of the Beagle Channel, facing the tail end of the gale that was forecast, and I had to decide how close in to Isla de los Estados and the toe of Tierra del Fuego I dared go. ‘The position,’ I said. ‘I need to know now while conditions are quiet.’

  But he shook his head, backing away from me. ‘I get some sleep now.’

  ‘Don’t you know the position? Is that it?’

  ‘Of course I know the position … But that chart … It does not cover the extreme south-west corner of the Weddell Sea. So I cannot mark it in for you. Tomorrow perhaps. You find me a chart that covers the whole area … Now I am tired. I don’t have much sleep for several days. Okay?’ And with a smile and wave of his hand he disappeared below.

  A blip showed on the radar, in the passage north of Piedra that we would be taking to Cabo San Pio and our entry into the Southern Ocean. I watched for a while until I had confirmed it as a vessel steaming towards us, then I told Nils, who was in the helmsman’s chair, to wake me at 03.15 and curled up under a blanket on the couch at the side of the wheelhouse. I was thinking about Ángel’s evasiveness over the position of the wreck, his reaction to our quick departure, and about those cases. I heard the sails banging as a gust came in from the beam, wondered whether I should get up and trim them, and the next thing I knew Nils was shaking me. ‘A quarter after three, Pete. That ship very close now. Green to green, ja?’

  She passed us at a distance of about four hundred metres, the sound of her engines coming to us quite loud across the water. She was a medium-sized tanker, her lights blurred by a rain squall. I stayed awake until Andy relieved Nils and we were into the passage between the island and the Argentine mainland, then I went back to my couch, telling him to wake me when we were approaching Cabo San Pio, or when Iain relieved him, whichever was sooner.