Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [48]
He had last sailed a dinghy off Cape Cod during long summer holidays as a boy, but never in weather like this. The light craft wasn't built for it and bucked wildly over the waves, shipping water constantly.
Within a short time he was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold. He hung on desperately to the tiller as the wind freshened and the waves began to chop menacingly.
Through the curtain of rain, the island loomed larger. Great cliffs lifted out of the sea and at their feet, the waves rolled in to dash upon jagged, dangerous-looking rocks.
There was no sign of a landing place. He tried to trim the sail to follow the shoreline, but the wind was too strong for him and suddenly, the cliffs were no more than a hundred yards away.
He dropped the sail hurriedly and reached for the oars, but it was too late. He was caught in a giant hand and carried helplessly in.
Strange, swirling currents twisted him in a circle and there was a hollow, slapping sound against the keel of the boat. At one side, the water broke suddenly, white spray foaming high in the air, while all around him, white patches appeared and rocks showed through as the tide went out.
The dinghy slewed broadside on into the surf, lifted high and smashed down against a great green slab of rock. Brady disappeared over the stern into a cauldron of boiling water.
He tried to stand up. All around him, boulders were appearing and disappearing as the waves foamed over them and then he was lifted with irresistible force and carried over the reef towards the base of the cliffs.
The water receded with a great sucking sound and he hooked his fingers into the gravel and forced himself to his knees.
He lurched forward, scrambling desperately over the rocks. A moment later, the water boiled waist-high again, tugging at his limbs with great curling fingers that tried to take him out to sea. He grabbed at a crevasse in a boulder and hung on.
As the water receded, he forced himself forward over the final line of jagged rocks. A moment later, he was safe on the narrow strip of beach at the base of the cliffs.
He sat down, holding his head in his hands, and the world spun away into the roaring of the sea and the taste of it was in his throat and he retched, bringing up a great quantity of salt water.
After a while he got to his feet and turned to examine the cliffs behind him. They were no more than seventy or eighty feet high and sloped gently backwards, cracked and fissured with great gullies.
It was an easy enough climb, but he was tired--very tired. The sea still roared in his ears and there was an element of unreality to everything as if none of this were really happening to him.
What am I doing here? he asked himself. There was no answer. No answer at all and he hauled himself over the edge of the cliff and sprawled face down in the wet grass.
(12)
AFTER a while he opened his eyes and saw the boots a few inches from his face. They were hand-made and very expensive. He started to get up and there was a low, warning growl like thunder rumbling faintly in the distance.
He rolled on to his back and looked up. Miklos Davos stood over him. He wore a thigh-length hunting jacket with a fur collar and a green Tyrolean hat slanted across the wedge-shaped devil's face. He carried a double-barrelled shotgun under one arm.
The source of the growl was a magnificent black-and-tan Dobermann and it moved forward threateningly, eyes glowing like hot coals.
"Down, Kurt! Down!" Davos said. "I don't think we need to worry about Mr. Brady. He doesn't look too healthy."
He squatted, the shotgun comfortably across his knees, and produced a large leather hip flask. "I've been watching your progress for the past half-hour. You've had a rough crossing. A little brandy will settle your stomach."