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She went into the galley. I turned and climbed the companionway to the deck. The weight of the wind hit me as soon as I hauled myself through the hatch. I staggered to the weather rail and looked out into the darkness. Broken wavetops hissed hungrily each time the ship lifted. The sea was a roaring waste of heaving water. Each wave was a tussle between ship and sea and sometimes the sea won, breaking inboard with a crash and seething out through the lee scuppers. Jorgensen was still at the wheel. Dick was huddled beside Curtis in the shelter of the cockpit. ‘What are we making by the log?’ I asked him.

‘About seven,’ he answered.

‘Have you seen Dahler?’ Jorgensen asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘What does he say?’

‘He says it was an accident,’ I replied. ‘The wheel was too heavy for him.’

‘He’s lying.’

‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘But you wouldn’t convince a jury of it. The fact remains that the man’s a cripple and only has one hand.’ I turned to Dick. ‘Time for my watch to take over,’ I said.

Jorgensen handed over the wheel to me without a word. I watched him cross the green glow of the starb’d navigation light and disappear down the main hatch. ‘Keep your eye on him, Dick,’ I said. ‘If we don’t watch out we’ll have one of them overboard.’

‘They don’t love each other, do they?’ he said.

‘Not so as you’d notice,’ I answered. ‘Would you mind bunking in the saloon for a couple of nights?’

‘Watchdog, eh? Okay. But I warn you, Bill, when I close my eyes a regiment of killers could trample over me and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.’

He went below then and I was alone in the thundering, pitching night. Seated there at the wheel I could feel Diviner tearing forward through the water at the surge of each wave. Then she’d slip back, stern foremost, into the trough and wallow till the next wave lifted her and the wind drove her on into the darkness. It was a weird scene. The red and green navigation lights illuminated the canvas of the sails with an unearthly glow, a sort of demon phosphorescence. The music of The Damnation of Faust drifted through my mind. The weird descent into Hell … If Berlioz had included a scene with Charon crossing the Styx, then this was the lighting he’d have used. What a setting for something horrible! I thought of those two men — Jorgensen and Dahler — hating each other and fearing each other at the same time. I laughed out loud. And I’d been so damned pleased with myself when I’d bluffed Jorgensen into sailing down the Thames with us. And right now I’d have given a lot to be able to set him ashore at Greenwich.

The macabre turn my thoughts had taken was interrupted by the arrival of Jill. ‘How’s Dahler?’ I asked her as she seated herself in the cockpit.

‘Sleeping,’ she said. ‘He’s quite exhausted.’

‘And Jorgensen?’ I asked.

‘Gone to his cabin. And Dick has settled himself in the saloon.’ She sighed and settled her back against the chartroom. I could just see the pale oval of her face in the light of the binnacle. The rest of her was a dark bundle of sweaters and oilskins. Every now and then a burst of spray swept across us, stinging my eyes with salt.

Tired?’ I asked.

‘A bit,’ she answered drowsily.

‘Why not go below?’ I suggested. ‘There’ll be no more sail changing to do this watch.’

‘I’d rather stay up here,’ she answered, ‘in the fresh air.’

Wilson came up shortly, after that with mugs of scalding coffee. After we’d drunk it the remaining three hours of the watch dragged. Once we sighted the navigation lights of a drifter. The rest of the time the boat was plunging through a void of utter darkness. Sleep weighed on our eyes. It was a constant fight to keep awake. At four in the morning we called the starboard watch. A faint grey light percolating the low cloud and the tumbled outline of the waves marching up behind us was just visible.

That was to be our last full day at sea. The wind lessened and the sea dropped. Daylight revealed no real damage aloft and we piled on sail again. By midday a watery sun came out and I was able to obtain a fix. This confirmed our position — about 30 miles due west of the Norwegian port of Stavanger. I altered course to north eleven east.

All that day Dahler kept to his cabin. Jill reported that he was in a state of nervous exhaustion and suffering from seasickness and lack of food. I went to see him just after the midday meal. The cabin smelt stale and airless. Dahler was lying with his eyes closed. His face looked grey under the dirty stubble except for a livid bruise on his cheek and the red line of his cut lip. I thought he was asleep, but as I turned to go he opened his eyes. ‘When will we be in — Norway?’ he asked.

‘Dawn Tommorow,’ I replied.