Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [339]
There, across the brown waters, under a grey sky, lay the headland.
“The isle in the sea,” he sighed. For centuries this was the name that the Jews of Europe had given to the island of Britain, hidden by its narrow Channel and shrouded in its soft, northern mists. The low, matter-of-fact headland lying quietly behind him on this cold, dull day, was so infinitely touching to him, such a sudden and poignant reminder that he was never to see England again, that, still holding onto the thick mast, he suddenly broke into tears.
The tide was very low, and the captain, chatting to his sons, seemed to be taking little notice of where they were going. It was thanks to his carelessness that suddenly, when it was a mile out from the headland, the little boat crunched aground on a sandbank in the bay. The passengers groaned and the captain cursed his own folly loudly.
There was nothing to do but for passengers and crew alike to clamber out in order to lighten the boat, and stand on the sandbank with the cold salt water coming up to their knees while the captain and his sons heaved and cursed as they rocked the boat to shift it. The process took several minutes, but finally they managed to get the little vessel free, and in order not to make the same mistake again, the captain and his sons waded several yards out to keep the boat off the sands while ordering the passengers to stay where they were. Only when it was well clear did the crew clamber on, while the captain tried to hold the bow.
Then the captain swung himself up into the boat, turning to face his passengers, still obediently waiting on the sandbank.
“How do we board?” one of the men cried.
The captain grinned.
“You don’t.”
The passengers looked at each other, bemused. Was this a strange joke of some kind?
“You don’t board, Jew,” the captain cried. “You stay on the sandbank.”
“But we paid our fares.”
“And this is where they get you,” he chuckled.
And now, suddenly his two sons pushed off with their oars, sending the boat skidding out into the deep water.
“Tide’s coming up,” the captain shouted. He looked at Aaron. “Remember Moses, old man, and you can part the waters!” He roared with laughter at this excellent joke. His sons swung the boat round, caught the wind, and as the sail filled out with a snap, the boat began to tack away towards the harbour.
Only now did the little group understand that the manoeuvre with the sandbank had been a trick. They gazed at the departing boat in astonishment, scarcely able to believe what was happening.
There was a shocked silence.
“What shall we do?” The younger of the two men turned to Aaron.
“Can you swim?”
“No.”
There were two men and a woman, none of them in condition to attempt any feats of physical endurance, even if they could swim. The three children were thin and silent, in a state of shock. Aaron looked around him. It was a mile to the headland and perhaps a mile and a half to the main line of the shore. The water was already over his knees.
“We’ll have to try to swim,” he said finally. He knew it was useless, but if they stayed there, it was obvious they would drown. No one responded.
“Perhaps someone will see us,” one of the men suggested.
The coastline was bare. By the sand bar at the end of the headland, he could see the fishermen were still there. But would they rescue them? Christchurch itself was far away, hidden from view by the headland.
“Perhaps the sailors will change their minds.”
Aaron did not reply.
“Better try to swim,” he suggested. Still nobody moved.
The woman began to cry for help.
It was only then that he saw the storm.
The black clouds that came over the bay had seemed insignificant when they appeared on the horizon, no bigger than a man’s hand. But then they had arisen suddenly and within minutes had spread out, blackening the west and rushing forward over the waters with terrible swiftness, like ominous birds of prey. The storm came in a fury. Its winds whipped the sea into a wild spray, hurling it against