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Authors: Jean S. Macleod
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breakers beneath it. She heard Ronald curse and mutter something beneath his breath as they tipped at a crazy angle and she could see all the starboard wing-span beneath her.
“We’re too damned near the sea,” he said involuntarily, “and I can’t make any height. I’ll have to ditch her and hope for the best.”
“There’s something over there!” Ginger strained his eyes in the first pale flush of dawn which came between the clouds. “Skipper—it’s an island—and hills!”
“My God! Heimra!”
The words were tense and clipped, and Ronald appeared to rise over the controls, although he was firmly strapped to his seat. For a moment they seemed to be gaining height, swerving away from the blackness of the hills. There was no sound in the plane. Nobody spoke, and there was no time for fear. Alison clenched her teeth and waited, while coolly, calmly, Ginger MacLean spoke once more over the radio transmitter to his base, giving his position and direction of flight. Then, once again, the fateful words: “Mayday!” “Mayday...!”
In a silence which could almost be felt they began to lose height, and for a single, devastating moment Alison saw Ronald’s face in the bright flash of the lighthouse beam. It was tense with strain, but it was also calm.
“I’m putting her down,” he said. “Fasten yourself in and hold on to everything. If I’m lucky I might make Heimra Beag.”
Alison felt her fingernails biting into her flesh as they banked again, and a white stretch of sand came racing up to meet them.
“Dear God!” she murmured twice before they touched something solid and the whole bottom of the plane seemed to be wrenched away.
At least, she thought, they’ll send another plane through for the emergency.
When she was aware of light again two hefty arms were pulling her out of the sea. Ginger, with his coat torn and a blackened face, peered down at her with anxious eyes.
“The skipper’s hurt,” he said. “We struck something on the sand—pot-hole, probably. Are you all right? We’re ashore, thank God!”
Alison attempted to struggle to her feet, only to be driven back on her knees by a wrenching pain in her side, high up over the diaphragm.
Ribs, she thought automatically, hoping that that might be all.
“Don’t mind me,” she commanded breathlessly. “See what you can do for Ron.”
Ginger looked at her doubtfully, and then back towards the sea.
“I’ll need help,” he told her without further ado. “The tide’s coming in.”
And who was to help him, apart from herself? Pain racked her as she struggled to her feet, but she bit her teeth into her lower lip and followed Ginger across the sand.
The fuselage was still intact, but in there, somewhere, Ronald Gowrie lay unconscious.
“I’ll have to go up round the other side,” Ginger shouted to her against a rising wind. “She’s tipped this way and the door’s jammed. There’s nothing we can do from here.”
“Tell me what you want me to do,” she shouted back. She was shivering. Reaction had set in, and they still did not know whether Ronald Gowrie was alive or dead. “I’ll try to come with you.”
“Maybe you’d better, if you can.”
Ginger was already scrambling over the rocky headland beneath which the Heron had come to rest, holding on to the side of the fuselage where he could, and soon he was knee-deep in water and liable to slip from his precarious foot-h o ld at any moment.
They had, however, to get into the plane somehow.
Alison threw off her cloak. It was already wet and she would manage better without its hampering weight dragging her down.
The darkness had lifted, as if the storm, having done its worst had paused to draw breath, and she could see the outline of the cliff above her and, out to sea, stretching like treacherous tentacles from the island, a line of skerries with white surf breaking over it. That, at least, they had avoided by Ronald’s skill.
From time to time there was the
“We’re too damned near the sea,” he said involuntarily, “and I can’t make any height. I’ll have to ditch her and hope for the best.”
“There’s something over there!” Ginger strained his eyes in the first pale flush of dawn which came between the clouds. “Skipper—it’s an island—and hills!”
“My God! Heimra!”
The words were tense and clipped, and Ronald appeared to rise over the controls, although he was firmly strapped to his seat. For a moment they seemed to be gaining height, swerving away from the blackness of the hills. There was no sound in the plane. Nobody spoke, and there was no time for fear. Alison clenched her teeth and waited, while coolly, calmly, Ginger MacLean spoke once more over the radio transmitter to his base, giving his position and direction of flight. Then, once again, the fateful words: “Mayday!” “Mayday...!”
In a silence which could almost be felt they began to lose height, and for a single, devastating moment Alison saw Ronald’s face in the bright flash of the lighthouse beam. It was tense with strain, but it was also calm.
“I’m putting her down,” he said. “Fasten yourself in and hold on to everything. If I’m lucky I might make Heimra Beag.”
Alison felt her fingernails biting into her flesh as they banked again, and a white stretch of sand came racing up to meet them.
“Dear God!” she murmured twice before they touched something solid and the whole bottom of the plane seemed to be wrenched away.
At least, she thought, they’ll send another plane through for the emergency.
When she was aware of light again two hefty arms were pulling her out of the sea. Ginger, with his coat torn and a blackened face, peered down at her with anxious eyes.
“The skipper’s hurt,” he said. “We struck something on the sand—pot-hole, probably. Are you all right? We’re ashore, thank God!”
Alison attempted to struggle to her feet, only to be driven back on her knees by a wrenching pain in her side, high up over the diaphragm.
Ribs, she thought automatically, hoping that that might be all.
“Don’t mind me,” she commanded breathlessly. “See what you can do for Ron.”
Ginger looked at her doubtfully, and then back towards the sea.
“I’ll need help,” he told her without further ado. “The tide’s coming in.”
And who was to help him, apart from herself? Pain racked her as she struggled to her feet, but she bit her teeth into her lower lip and followed Ginger across the sand.
The fuselage was still intact, but in there, somewhere, Ronald Gowrie lay unconscious.
“I’ll have to go up round the other side,” Ginger shouted to her against a rising wind. “She’s tipped this way and the door’s jammed. There’s nothing we can do from here.”
“Tell me what you want me to do,” she shouted back. She was shivering. Reaction had set in, and they still did not know whether Ronald Gowrie was alive or dead. “I’ll try to come with you.”
“Maybe you’d better, if you can.”
Ginger was already scrambling over the rocky headland beneath which the Heron had come to rest, holding on to the side of the fuselage where he could, and soon he was knee-deep in water and liable to slip from his precarious foot-h o ld at any moment.
They had, however, to get into the plane somehow.
Alison threw off her cloak. It was already wet and she would manage better without its hampering weight dragging her down.
The darkness had lifted, as if the storm, having done its worst had paused to draw breath, and she could see the outline of the cliff above her and, out to sea, stretching like treacherous tentacles from the island, a line of skerries with white surf breaking over it. That, at least, they had avoided by Ronald’s skill.
From time to time there was the
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