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  An awkward silence was broken by Victor Wellington saying, ‘Now that we’re all here I think we can get started.’ He waited until we were settled, then went on, ‘To go back a bit, Iris first got in touch with me about this Flying Dutchman of a ship shortly after her husband’s death. Since then she has been very busy trying to raise money and, at the same time, making enquiries in Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and more particularly in the far south of South America, at Punta Arenas in the Magellan Strait and at Ushuaia in the Beagle Channel. As a result, we have, all four of us, come to the conclusion that if her husband did in fact sight the wreck of a square-rigged ship in the ice of the Weddell Sea before the plane he was in crashed, then it has to be the frigate Andros.’ He looked across at the World Ship Trust representative. ‘You have some photographs, I believe?’

  The other nodded. ‘Two in fact. One taken just after she was raised from the mud of the River Uruguay in 1981, the other after she had been restored and purchased by the Argentine Navy. Both are from the World Ship Trust’s International Register of Historic Ships.’ He had several copies and these he passed round the table. When we had all looked at them, Wellington said, ‘Speaking for the Museum, and the Chairman is in full agreement, we would support any effort on anybody’s part to obtain for exhibition in Britain a fully-rigged Blackwall frigate. That’s what we believe it to be. It would be one of the earliest frigates on display anywhere in the world …’

  ‘You support the idea,’ the Chairman of the Maritime Trust put in, ‘but you’re not prepared to put your money where your mouth is – that right?’

  Wellington glanced at his Chairman, who said, ‘Moral support, yes; money, no. We’ve none to spare at the moment, as you well know, but we’ll help in any way we can if and when restoration is in progress.’ He looked across at Iris Sunderby with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps Victor will let you have the floor now. And you, sir,’ he added, turning to Ward. ‘If the ship is there, and if it can be recovered, and presuming it really is the Andros …’ He gave a quick shrug, the smile back on his face. ‘A lot of ifs, I’m afraid.’ He stared at the man. ‘You’re serious, are you? About financing the search for the vessel, and its recovery if found?’ Then he added, speaking slowly, ‘Expeditions, my friend, do not come cheap. It’s a hell of a lot of money for one man to put up.’

  ‘Ye doubtin’ Ah’ve got it? Is that it?’ Ward leaned forward across the table, his tone suddenly belligerent.

  ‘No, of course not. That’s not what I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘What then?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Look, just in case ye didn’t believe it, Ah brought these along to show ye.’ His left hand, delving into the breast pocket of his jacket, came out with a bundle of press-cuttings. He almost threw them across the table. ‘There ye are. There’s even a close-up of the cheque. Y’see what it says – one million tae hundred an’ thirty-six pounds, seventeen pence. But understan’ this: Ah’m only interested in the search, no’ in the restoration.’

  The Admiral nodded. ‘Of course. We understand that. And I’m sure, once we have a full appraisal of the ship’s condition, and what remains of the hull is berthed in a proper port so that an appeal can be launched, there will be no difficulty in raising the necessary money.’

  ‘Mrs Sunderby has included a memo …’ Wellington’s voice trailed away as the Admiral’s grey eyes turned suddenly frosty.

  ‘A memo is not the same, Victor. Mr Ward here needs to be assured that his commitment ends with the arrival of the ship’s remains in say Port Stanley or even Grytviken in South Georgia. Just as we need to be assured, before we lend our support to the project, that he has a proper idea of the cost. And the dangers,’ he added, turning back to Ward. ‘That’s what this meeting is all about. Now –’ and his eyes fastened on the Scotsman – ‘if I can put a few questions to you: as I understand it, or –’ and he glanced quickly down at a sheet of paper in front of him – ‘as you have given Mrs Sunderby to understand, you’re prepared to commit up to half of what you’ve apparently won on the pools to the search and recovery of this icebound ship, and apart from being consulted regarding type of vessel to be used in the search and the make-up of the crew, the only proviso you make is that, whatever the circumstances, you will be included in the search team. In other words, you’re buying into the expedition. Correct?’

  ‘Aye, but ye’ve got to understan’ –’

  ‘One moment.’ The Admiral held up his hand. ‘You have a handicap. And here I’m going to speak to you man-to-man as a naval officer. In fairness to the others, who will be risking their lives with you on the edge of the Ice Shelf in areas where the pack is continuous throughout the year, I think you should reconsider the condition you’ve made –’

  ‘No!’ It exploded out of him, his body bending forward across the table, the left hand clenched so tight the muscles showed in knots and his eyes levelled at the Admiral. ‘This is what Ah want. Ah’ve had a wee bit o’ luck, see. Ah’ve won the pools, got mesel’ a bloody great cheque, an’ now the house Ah live in is inundated wi’ beggin’ letters, postbags of it, all the usual charity professionals trying to get their snoots in the trough, an’ callers too, a lot o’ no-good villains an’ half the dropouts an’ cranks in Britain. First thing Ah got was an incinerator. Ah burn the lot in the backyard. Ah know what Ah want, see. The reason Ah’m here is that Ah asked the OYC – that’s the Ocean Youth Club, Ah sailed on one o’ their boats once – an’ they suggested Ah contact the World Ship Trust.’

  The words poured out of him, a dam breaking. ‘It’s no’ the ship Ah’m interested in. It’s the excitement, the sense o’ somethin’ worth while. Ah wanted somethin’ Ah’d have to fight fur, somethin’ that’d take me sailin’ half across the world. And then –’ He turned his head, smiling suddenly, his eyes gleaming – ‘Then Ah saw Mrs Sunderby’s ad, in one o’ the yachtin’ mags. She wanted crew fur this Antarctic ship search, crew that could pay their way an’ contribute to the cost. So here Ah am.’ He had turned back to the Admiral. ‘Me condition stands. If Ah finance the expedition, then they got to take me wi’ them. Understand’?’

  There was a sudden silence round the table, the young Scotsman and the grey-haired Admiral staring at each other. Finally the Admiral said very quietly, ‘I’ve never been to the Antarctic, but as a youngster I was on an Arctic exercise. We were marooned in the ice for two weeks. I know what it’s like. You don’t. Fitness is everything. And if we support Mrs Sunderby’s expedition –’

  ‘My expedition,’ the other cut in harshly. ‘If Ah’m payin’ fur it, then it’s my expedition. The Iain Ward Antarctic Ship Search. That’s what it’ll be called.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘Ye got yer place in history, sir. Ah want mine. Even if it kills me. See.’

  ‘And if it kills the others?’ The Admiral paused, the grey eyes hard as they stared at Ward. ‘How would you feel then?’ And he added, his words coming slowly so that they carried weight, ‘Speaking for the Museum, I cannot agree to supporting an expedition that’s saddled with a fundamental weakness.’

  ‘Meanin’ this?’ Ward patted the gloved right hand.

  ‘Yes. Meaning just that.’

  ‘And that’s yer only objection?’ Ward’s face was flushed. ‘Ye’re goin’ to damn the whole thin’ just because o’ me participation, wi’out the slightest knowledge o’ what the poor wee hand God gave me can doe, wi’out even botherin’ to test it out?’ He scrambled out of his seat, came round to where Victor Wellington was seated opposite the Admiral. ‘Shift over, will ye.’ His gloved hand reached out, fastening on the man’s shoulder and pulling him sideways. Then, bending to avoid the deck beams, he scrambled out of his jacket, sliding his long body into the space that had been made for him. ‘Right.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal a withered claw of a hand set high up on the arm, wrist and elbow seemingly all one, the joint merging into the muscles that bulged below the shoulder. The hand was fastened round a plastic grip that activated the artifi
cial hand through a bright metal connecting arm. ‘Now, ye just take hold o’ me artificial paw an’ we’ll test it out, ye an’ me, an’ Ah’ll bet ye a fiver ye’ve no’ the grip or the muscles Ah’ve got.’

  The Admiral hesitated, staring at the withered mockery of a hand and the gloved fingers that had opened ready to clasp his own. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he nodded his head, reached forward and gripped the gloved hand, wincing as the steel fingers closed on his own flesh and bone.

  ‘If it’s too uncomfortable Ah’ll drop the artificial extension an’ ye can test out the grip this claw o’ mine’s got. But then, o’ course, it will have to be elbows off the table.’

  ‘No, we’ll try it this way. I’ve seen artificial limbs like this before and I’ll be interested to check the efficiency of it.’ He was smiling now. ‘Haven’t played this game since I was a middy.’ He planted his elbow on the table. ‘Say when.’

  Ward had placed his own strangely-shaped elbow-cum-wrist in position, the muscles above beginning to swell as he said, ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Squared up to each other, their faces tense and set, they began to strain, arms literally trembling with the effort. The theatricality of it was almost ridiculous, an expedition into the Antarctic apparently depending on the outcome. Ward was like an actor slipping into a well-worn part and I knew he had done this before, a sort of party trick. He was enjoying himself. You could see it in his face. So, in his different way, was the Admiral. Socially, and probably politically, they were poles apart, yet in their personalities there was something remarkably similar. Seeing them face-to-face like that, the good hand locked with the gloved steel, muscles straining, the blood pulsing, they were like two gladiators – one could almost hear the crowd baying.

  And then in a flash it was over, the Admiral’s arm bending outwards, his whole body being pressed sideways until his arm was flat on the table.

  Ward released his grip on the artificial forearm and the gloved fingers let go the Admiral’s hand. ‘Would ye like to try it wi’out the gadget?’ The metal extension fell with a dramatic clatter on the table-top. ‘It’ll have to be standin’ up, elbows free, o’ course.’

  The Admiral shook his head, flexing his fingers.

  ‘Ah was born like this,’ Ward said almost apologetically. ‘Ah’ve been learnin’ to cope wi’ it ever since Ah were shoved out into this wicked world, an’ gradually Ah’ve built the muscles till Ah’ve a lot o’ strength here.’ He tapped his shoulder as he got to his feet. ‘Ah’ve even got a black belt. Karate.’ He was putting on his jacket again. ‘Does that set yer mind at rest or d’ye want me to run up the Cutty Sark’s riggin’ and scramble over the futtock shrouds or whatever?’

  The Admiral laughed. ‘No. I think my objection has been very conclusively overridden.’ He turned to Mrs Sunderby. ‘What about crew? I presume you’ve given some thought to that.’

  She nodded, pulling another file from her briefcase. ‘I contacted the Whitbread people, the RYA, the STA and the RORC. Out of a list of over a hundred names for which I had some biographical and performance details, I narrowed it down to just over twenty who might have the time and the inclination to join this sort of expedition. As a result I have seven possibles.’ She hesitated. ‘If you have somebody in mind, Admiral …?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Alas, those that leap to mind are all too old for this sort of a lark, myself included. Now if I were forty years younger –’ He gave a little shrug. ‘What’s the total complement you have in mind?’

  She glanced down at the typed sheet in her hand. ‘Apart from myself and Mr Ward here, I’ll need an engineer, an experienced navigator, a sailing master, a deckhand with Arctic experience and a cook who is also a sailor – five in all. I think that should be enough, though we could do with one extra in case of injury, and I’ll need somebody who is a competent radio operator.’

  ‘You’ve got them lined up, have you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Four of them anyway. The hardest to find will be a deckhand with actual experience of working with sledges on ice. A man who is available and has a great deal of experience on North Polar sea ice is, in my view, too old; also he has a wife and three kids and his fee is commensurate with his family responsibilities. There was an Irishman who had done all sorts of things, half of which I didn’t really believe, and an Australian who ran a radio shop in Perth and had worked for a year at the Australian Antarctic base largely as stand-in radio operator. He claimed to have done quite a lot of sailing and to have been a member of the reserve crew for one of the America’s Cup contenders when the race was run in Perth. Unfortunately he recently married a veterinary graduate and didn’t want to leave his wife. She had sailed the coast of Western Australia in her father’s boat, so I suggested he bring her along. A vet isn’t quite the same as having a doctor on board, but at least she would have been able to stitch up wounds, set bones and dish out the right pills. But in the end she said, No, it would ruin her chances of becoming a partner in the firm she had recently joined. A pity. They sounded ideal, particularly as he says he’s a ham radio enthusiast. The others …’ She gave a dismissive little shrug. ‘It’s not easy trying to get crew when you still haven’t solved the financial problem. They’ve got to be the right people. They’ve got to have the right temperament as well as the experience. And we do need somebody to handle the radio side. It’s our lifeline to the outside world.’ She glanced at Ward, adding quickly, as though afraid she might have discouraged him, ‘I’ve still got feelers out, of course, and I am sure, once I have the boat, and support for the expedition is guaranteed, I will be able to attract the right people.’ Her eyes looked nervously round the table. ‘Anyway, that’s the crew situation at the moment.’

  The Admiral nodded and turned to his Director. ‘You agree, Victor? We give moral support.’

  Wellington hesitated, his eyes searching his Chairman’s face. ‘The one thing the Museum lacks, apart from money, of course, is a full-size ship to complement our superb building. Something like the Cutty Sark here, so that visitors can walk straight from historical exhibits on to the deck of the real thing. It’s something that the Friends of the Museum, and quite a few of the staff, have been pressing for over the years. If this Blackwall frigate really exists, if there really is a ship like that down there in the ice …’ His eyes gleamed and his voice changed, taking on a sudden note of almost boyish enthusiasm as he told Ward what it was that made this particular type of frigate so special.

  Apparently they were not naval vessels at all, but large East Indiamen built at Blackwall on the Thames just downstream of the Navy Yard. By then the Company, and also the Dutch, needed faster vessels, ships that could outrun or fight off any attacker, so they began building to the lines of the naval frigates and the first of the Blackwall-built vessels was the Seringapatam. ‘This was in’ 1837, in the last days of the East India Company, so not many of them were built.’ That first vessel had been of 818 tons, almost half the size of the largest they ever built, which was 183 feet long with a beam of 40 feet and a tonnage of around 1,400. The Andros, he thought, was about 1,000 tons. ‘Most of these ships were later used as emigrant transports; they also went south round the Horn for the Californian and Australian gold rushes.’

  While he was talking I had become increasingly conscious of the sound of voices from beyond the door that led for’ard to the officers’ galley and cabins, children’s voices mainly. And then a movement caught my eye above the hanging lamp, two small faces peering down at us from the skylight. As soon as they realised I had seen them they vanished and in their place was a young man’s face, dark, intense, the eyes slightly protuberant and a thin spoilt mouth, the dull gold sleeve of his blouson flattened against the glass. He was looking down at Iris Sunderby, a strange glint in his eyes. Was it lust? Hatred perhaps? I couldn’t be sure. All I knew for certain was that the sight of her sitting there, her head bent over her papers, had sparked off some violent emotion.

  He must have sense
d I was watching him for he suddenly turned his head and looked straight at me. I could see his eyes more clearly then, very dark and full of malevolence. Or so it seemed at the time. But it was such a fleeting glimpse, then it was gone and I thought he smiled at me. A second later I was staring up at an empty rectangle of blue sky. ‘Tourists,’ Wellington said. ‘They get all over the place.’

  I glanced quickly across at Iris Sunderby, wondering whether she had seen him and what her reaction had been, but her head was now turned towards Victor Wellington as he described more fully the Andros frigate; dimensions, masts, rigging, all the construction details so dear to a curator contemplating a prize exhibit.

  I don’t remember much of what he said, for the face in the skylight had made an extraordinary impression on me. It sounds ridiculous as I write, about it now, just the glimpse of a face through a ship’s skylight, but I knew then, in that instant, there was something between them, something that linked him to Iris Sunderby in a way that was both personal and frightening. It was such a startling impression to form in the photo-flash moment of his staring down at her. But there it is. That face conveyed something, the very intent, very concentrated expression of it sending a chill through me that even now I cannot entirely explain.

  ‘If the expedition – your expedition – were successful and you found the remains of the Andros in the ice, with Peter Kettil here to advise you on its preservation …’ That mention of my name jerked my mind back from its wild imaginings. It was the first indication I had of the real purpose of my presence here at this gathering.

  ‘Are you suggesting I advise them – out there?’ My voice sounded small and uncertain.

  Victor Wellington’s sharp little eyes fastened on me. ‘Of course. It’s essential to have an expert on the spot to assess what is necessary for preservation of the ship’s timbers so that it can be flown out, together with the appropriate technicians. Then, when the salvage boys have cut a way out for her, the hull can be towed north into warmer seas without fear of it disintegrating.’