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spending, chiefly on bridge equipment—an Aldis signalling lamp, a set of flags, a megaphone, glasses, and, most expensive item of all, radio equipment. The following day I called at the Post Office and found Stuart’s reply waiting for me. It read—“Arrange arrival morning twenty-seventh end coast road Littlestone dash Dungeness Ack.”
    I acknowledged and then returned to the Trevedra . At the flood that afternoon we winched her off on the hook which we’d carried well out several days before. Then we slipped into the Docks and returned all the gear we’d borrowed. We fuelled and watered and then had one last night ashore. Slater had found me two sailors on leave who wanted a lift along the coast and with this temporary addition to our crew we sailed for Dungeness the next morning.
    The sea was calm and we were off Dungeness light as the sun rose over the bows. The Bedfords were readywaiting on the coast road just where it turns inland a few hundred yards short of the Pilot Inn. Through the glasses I saw Stuart coming down on to the beach waving to me and I ran straight in, dropping the hook about half-a-cable’s length from the shore. She beached with a grating crash. I dropped the bow door and we made fast with ground anchors.
    I said good-bye to my temporary crew and within an hour we had four of the Bedfords, loaded to the canopy with crates of cigarettes, stowed and lashed. The fifth was full of spares and had to be backed-in, off-loaded and taken back to the farm for more. She did four trips before the barn was cleared. But at last we had her stowed and I got the bow anchor in and raised the door. We winched her out and when the hook was up I went up on to the bridge and headed the ship down Channel.
    Boyd was at the wheel and Stuart joined me on the bridge. “Just been having a look round,” he said. “Nice job you’ve done.”
    I didn’t say anything and nor did he after that. We just stood and smoked, watching the water slip past and listening to the rhythmic chug of the engines and the slap of the waves against the blunt bows. We were both of us feeling that life was very good. We had achieved something. We had a ship and a cargo. The weather was fair and we were outward bound. We were traders—and I thought back down the long line of British traders and felt a surge of satisfaction that I was one of them.
    We got a holding chain made fast round the bow door and double-lashed the cargo and loose gear. I was taking no chances with the weather in the Bay of Biscay. By sundown the Isle of Wight had disappeared in the gathering dusk from the east and we were out of sight of land, heading for Ushant in a long Atlantic swell.

CHAPTER FIVE
TROUBLE IN NAPLES
    T HE WEATHER was fair and we made a steady eight knots. Dugan and Boyd split the engine-room duties and Stuart and I the watches and wheel duty. The Bay was placid and by the morning of the third day we were running down the coast of Portugal. It began to get hot.
    That night there occurred something that had a bearing on what happened later. Darkness came out of a cloudless sky. Stuart and I were on the bridge, smoking and watching the stars. The sea was almost glassy and only a slight vibration and the sound of the engines told us that we were moving. The night air was warm with the promise of heat from the desert sands of Africa.
    “We should pick up the light of Cape Vincent soon,” I said. I switched the light on in the covered chart recess and checked our position. According to my reckoning we were due to change course in another half-hour from south to south-east to make the Straits.
    “There’s a ship dead ahead of us,” Stuart said.
    I took my head out of the recess and gazed into the starlit night. At first I could see nothing. But as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness after the glare of the chart table light, I made out the dim shape of a small ship.
    “Looks like a schooner,” Stuart added, passing the glasses across to me.