Only four days ago his mother had waved a big finger in his face and told him. "Keep away from your granddad. He's a bloody danger to himself, and anybody else daft enough to follow him."

Billy, with all the accumulated wisdom of his twelve years, hadn't listened. And now they sat in their tiny boat, while a light southwest breeze carried them out to sea over the smooth waters of the English Channel.

He watched as the old man adjusted the boats sail. "Think we'll find anything out there, granddad?" He asked, trying his best to keep the ever-increasing nervousness from his voice.

Pausing James looked at the boy. "Might do," he said. "Ships have been piling up on them sands for years. Thousands if the truth be told. Should be enough bunker coal where we're going to sell for a few bob." He fished an ancient pipe out of his jacket pocket, and sat on a thwart stuffing the bowl with the rank tobacco he favoured.

"Bunker Coal? It won't be any good, will it?" The boy asked. "Not after being in the sea a long time."

The old man looked quizzically at his Grandson, then laughed. "Course it will," he said patiently. "All we got to do is dry it out a few days. Then it'll be all right."

Billy wished he hadn't asked what must seem to the old man a foolish question.

"All right now then?" James's, weather-beaten faced creased into a smile. Billy was his favourite. Though he took care never to show it in front of his other grandchildren.

Luckily they were all girls. So, although James suspected they had already guessed his only grandson was the apple of his eye. The question of jealousy never arose. Why should it? No one would ever have thought of taking a girl to sea in those days.

The boy nodded his assent. And contented, James settled down to the important business of making himself as comfortable as possible for the rest of their journey.

They sailed on in a cloud of the old man's tobacco smoke, and a silence broken only by the lapping of water along the hull.

Billy sat in the stern steering their frail little boat, wondering what the day would bring. James sat amidships, and turned his mind back to old times, and lost friends. Wishing, as he found himself so often doing these days, that he was a young man again.

He remembered his first trip to France with his own father back in 1861. He'd only just turned seventeen that May. And was already an accomplished boatman in a town where practically all the men made their living from the sea. More often than not by way of the 'Free Trade'.

Smuggling wines spirits and tobacco in from the continent. Like his own father William. After whom young Billy had been named.

What a day that had been, James mused. His father had come quietly into his room just before dawn, and woken him gently. "Wake up son." He said. "I need your help today."

Proud to be included in this latest venture, James got up and dressed hurriedly. Downstairs his father sat in his favourite chair at the table in their scullery. Drinking a mug of strong tea. Another mug was Set Out for James.

"Drink it quick," his father said. "The Belts brothers don't like waiting.

James gulped down his tea. Hauled on his sea boots, and took down both his own and his father's Sou'wester's from the peg by the back door. Together they left the house not bothering to lock the door, and made their way up the little street that led to the beach.

George Betts and his younger brother Ernie had made their boat ready for sea. A long slim Deal Galley. It sat on the tarry planks the local boatmen always used to launch and recover their boats on the sloping shingle beach.

They gathered round, pushing the Galley until it moved under it's own momentum, then with a skill garnered over the years, jumped over the low gunwales just as the boat took to the sea.

Expertly the older men shipped the mast, and unfurled the big square sail while James manned the tiller.

Swift, but unstable in the wrong hands. Deal Galleys' had long been the bane of the excise men, whose own lumbering craft could seldom catch them.

Apart from their speed they had another valuable asset. When the tide was right as it was now, they could skim across the shallow waters covering the dangerous Goodwin Sands. Another vessel with a deeper draught would founder, and become battered to pieces. Coming from a long line of free traders, James knew all the tricks.

A good offshore breeze filled the galley's square sail, and the long slim craft fairly flew over the water.

Ernie Belts squatting in the bows, indicated with his hands the passage they were to take crossing the sands. James reading his signals swung the tiller steering the rapidly moving boat expertly through the swatch ways the older man picked out.

Soon the Goodwin's were behind them, and James steered south east by south. Heading for a little French port where the officials took a relaxed attitude, in return for a cut of the profits.

Towards mid afternoon. Business complete. And the casks of cognac they were running this time safely lashed away under tarpaulin. The men insisted on a drink in one of the harbour cafes.

Rather than wait by the boat James went with them.

They made for an empty table where William ordered cognac. "Might as well try the stuff your bread and butter comes from." He said plonking a half filled tumbler down in front of his son. "Make a man of you." James took a sip and screwed up his face.

"Not like that. This is how you downs it." Said George raising his own glass and knocking it back. "An' don't go sipping it outa them big glasses like the la di da's do either. Now, let's see you have a go." He said pushing a glass closer to James's.

Aware that this was a crucial point in his life as far as these men were concerned, James raised the glass and drank.

At first it burned. He spluttered and began to retch, but managed to control himself. Grinning though his eyes watered lie said. "All right." They laughed and clapped him on the back. Soon James was laughing too. Glad to be accepted by these men.

More cognac arrived, and they drank again. This time the burning was less, replaced by a pleasant warmth in his belly, and a feeling of light-headed well being. James reached for his glass, but wisely his father placed a big hand over his son's, stopping him. 'No," he said. "That's enough this first time." William took up his son's drink, knocked it back then followed it with his own.

Four girls, ignored by a sleepy Gendarme. Who had come in, against standing orders, for an illicit glass of wine. Were chatting idly at the bar. Casting speculative looks at the few customers as they assessed potential clients for their own days business.

With no offers forthcoming one of the girls detached herself from her companions and made her way to James's table.

"'Ullo English boy." She crooned.

James looked up into an oval face framed by softly curling dark hair that glowed golden where the summer sun at her back shone through.

Uninvited she took the vacant chair next to his, leaned her elbow on the table and rested the side of her face in her hand.

Unable to find the right words, James stammered out a strangled reply.

She laughed at his nervousness. Ah, you are shy. But you like Colette. It is good. She also likes you". She sat up, reached over and took his hand. "Come," she wheedled. "Colette has a room not far away. Only twenty francs, and we have a lovely filthy time. Yes?"

"No!" thundered William slamming a big callused hand down on the table. Glasses skittered splashing their contents over their rims. "Bugger off you French slut."

Startled, Colette sprang from her chair and hurriedly backed away towards her companions. When she considered herself at a safe distance she shouted "English pigs," and raised her skirt displaying her pudenda. "For you there is no pussy, English boy." She taunted.

William ignored her, and in tones of righteous indignation said to the brothers now struggling to suppress their laughter. "Well, she was trying to overcharge the lad."

Humiliated and aching for revenge. Colette decided to take things a stage further. She spotted a heavy clay bowl filled with water that the proprietor had thoughtfully placed on the floor in the event that wealthy Madame Clairot called in with the two poodles she doted on.

The proprietor had aspirations in that particular direction. And not the slightest doubt that a fine looking man like himself could very easily take to living off the fat of her bank balance.

The bowl sailed through the air in a graceful parabola. Spilling not a drop of its contents until it arrived at its destination. The center of James's table.

The Englishmen leapt to their feet turning to face their adversary. And a chair hurled by hot-tempered Ernie Betts narrowly missed the proprietor. Who screeched "Merde." And dropped behind his bar, allowing the missile to pass safely over his brillentined head and clear a two-metre space among his best stock occupying the middle shelf.

The sleepy Gendarme was sleepy no longer. He rushed towards the Englishmen clumsily drawing his service pistol from the stiff leather holster on his belt.

James saw the man's intentions. And springing forward smashed a tightly clenched fist into his nose. It was a good blow, carrying all the weight of James's muscular body.

The Gendarme's nose imploded under the fist. He went down covering his face with both hands, and rolling on the floor in a welter of blood and Gallic curses.

"Run." Roared William. And they rushed outside, and down to the quay where their boat was moored. Jumped aboard and were off While the rapidly gathering crowed beginning to line the seawall impotently threw curses and hastily gathered stones after them.

The wind and tide were now against them. And they were forced to sail home the long way, tacking past the South Sand Head.

William was furious. "Bloody fool," he said. "Losing us the best port we ever had."

But George Betts broke in. "Hold there William," He said. "The lad didn't ask the girl to come over.

"No. An' it was you that told her to bugger off" Said Ernie joining in.

Then George came in again with. "And what's more. He stopped that frenchie shooting you. Besides, we can always find us another port."

"You're right." Said William, at last seeing the funny side. He grinned at his son, shook his hand and said. "Thanks. You did us proud today."

James shook himself out of his reverie. They had been good days all right. Gone now though, sadly. He looked intently at Billy. He'll do, he thought settling back with his pipe. A few more trips, an' he'll do fine.

Less than an hour later they neared the line of gentle breakers that marked their destination. Getting to his feet with an agility belying his age, James spilled air from the sail slowing the boat.

Billy steered into a small cove where the hard packed dunes were higher. Here the boat would be safer from the channel currents that could almost without warning become ferocious.

Together they dragged the boat out of the water and a little way up the beach. Where Billy moored it as securely as he could. Firmly pushing the spike of the painter deep into the hard packed sand.

As they stepped onto the drying sands, seabirds, that were stalking woodenly across the flats. In search of breakfast revealed by the retreating tide parted, to let them pass.

Eastwards, sunrise lit the sky. Turning the wet grey rippled sand an eerie pink. As sun, sea and sky combined to give substance to that empty place.

Not far away, was the last resting place of some now anonymous, once great ship. All that remained were half buried waterlogged wooden ribs, clad about with fronds of seaweed.

As the sun rose ever higher, shadows picked out evidence of other long forgotten disasters. Billy gazed around taking it all in. An icy thrill of fear tingled up his spine. He knew this was a bad place to be.

Fox-falls and swatches formed by whirlpool currents as the tide fell, pitted the surface. Some were many feet deep. And though the water in them was crystal clear, it was difficult to see bottom through their rippled surfaces.

"Get some sacks," Said James indicating a pile in the boat. He waited as the youngster collected a couple, then set off across the sand at a surprising pace.

Billy followed. But, was irresistibly drawn to investigate the protruding timbers.

"Stay close to me." James called. "Stumble in a fox-fall, an' you mightn't be seen again." Billy hurried back.

Taking the pipe from his mouth James pointed to the ground with its stem. "See how fast the sand's drying out?" Billy nodded. "Well an hour after the tide turns there'll be fifteen foot of water right where we are now.

Scraping Out his pipe he dropped his ash onto the damp sand and set off again. Closely followed by his increasingly reluctant grandson.

They plodded on until at last James halted at the edge of a gigantic pothole. Wavelets rippled its surface making the shape beneath indistinct.

"The Gut," he announced. "Tide's still got a way to go. Watch what happens."

As the water drained away through the sand the mysterious shape became clearer. Billy's eyes widened as he recognised it. "A ship. Nearly broke in two." He cried, unable to suppress his excitement.

Southern Star."' Said James. "Stranded over forty years ago." He broke off repacked and lit his pipe, puffed away until it was burning to his satisfaction, then continued. "Calm weather when she took the ground. But they couldn't get her off. Then she swaddled in. Broke her back an' there she stayed. Just rotting away.

Pausing he looked down at his grandson. "No matter how much the sea scours out that hole, she don't get buried."

"I thought you said they all got swallowed." Said Billy looking puzzled.

The old man removed his cap, scratched his baldhead, then replaced the cap at a different angle. "Most do, but this 'un don't." He murmured fiddling with his pipe. Billy waited for James to finish his familiar ritual of relighting the ancient pipe. As usual James was displeased with its performance.

Taking a small penknife from his pocket, he poked at the tobacco in the pipe bowl, struck a match to it once more, then cleared his throat and continued. "The currents take sand away as fast as they put it back. So the hole stays like it is, an' she don't get buried.

"A bit like when you used to play with that old enamel bowl of your mum's. Remember how you used to fill it with water, put mud in it an' stir it round to see where it settled each time?" Billy nodded. "Well, same thing here. The sand settles somewhere else every tide. Buries this. Uncovers that."

As he spoke the battered hull began showing above water.

First to break surface were the shorn off' twisted remains of the forward cargo loading derrick. Rusted and crumbling they rose from the water like a blackened gallows. Dripping, not with the blood of a victim, but residue from their own watery grave.

James broke the silence. Pointing at the widest part of the fracture with a tobacco stained finger. He said, "That's where we'll go in."

In a short while the water dropped to a point where they could start down the slope, and cross to the hull over a low ridge of sand.

Ducking through the hole, James motioned for Billy to follow, and together they stood in the gloom of a deserted hold.

"Remember. Keep your wits about you, an' your eyes peeled."

Billy looked around straining his eyes in the gloom. "All right." He muttered.

"Seared?" The old man laughed sensing the boy's fear. Billy winced at the eerie echo.

"No." He replied a little too loudly.

"All right then," Said James pretending not to know Billy was lying. "Let's see what we can find."

Billy nodded looking again at the rusty slanting bulkheads. The gloomy iron cavern was an uninviting place.

As they made their way through the dripping jumble inside the wreck, something threshed in a nearby pool of water. Billy's heart leapt. But he managed to stifle the cry that rose in his throat, seeing with a flood of relief that it was only a codling trapped by the ebbing tide.

Ahead a doorway led darkly into the ruins of the next compartment. James ducked through. Anxiously followed by Billy.

It took a long time for them to carefully move through the corroding hulk. Slowly they made their way past long dead, boilers, and the rusting remains of giant connecting rods. That had once transferred the engines power to the propeller shaft. But now threatened to come crashing down at the slightest touch.

Patches of light from other holes in the hull flooded in to reveal a rusting ladder, partially ripped from its bulkhead that blocked their way ahead.

"Got to be careful here." Said James examining the blockage. He rubbed his rust stained hands on his jacket, turned back to Billy and said. "We can't get past, we'll have to climb over.

"Can't we just go home?" Asked Billy.

"We're all right," said James irritably as he began to climb over the obstacle. The sound his leather sea boots made as he scrambled over the fragile metal. Reminded Billy of a live crab he had once set down on his mother's scullery floor.

While the pan of water his mother intended cooking it in came to the boil. Billy let the doomed creature scuttle aimlessly about on the flagstones. Prodding it with a stick every so often to keep it from going under his mother's old Welsh Dresser.

Now his granddad's boots were making the same kind of sound. Dully echoing in the enclosed space.

In his imagination, Billy pictured a giant crab creeping up on them. Intent on revenge. He shuddered and turned his attention back to his grandfather.

James had reached the top. Holding on with one hand he extended the other to Billy. "Take my hand," he said. "I'll help you over.

Billy reached out his own hand, and as their fingers touched, the metal gave way under the weight of the old man.

James fell into a mesh of rusted steel. A long jagged piece penetrated his lower abdomen and pierced his right kidney before emerging from his back.

James's screams bounced back from the steel walls, as he flopped about helplessly like that trapped fish.

Billy was frozen with horror. His mind numb with disbelief refused to accept the awful sight.

Billy pressed his hands hard against his ears. It was only when the screams stopped that he took them away.

James was still now. Hanging open mouthed, doubled over on his spike. Billy approached, gingerly and touched the old man's face. James's eyes flew open and Billy jumped back in horrified surprise, colliding with a rusted paper-thin stanchion behind him. Bringing it crashing to the decking.

James tried to speak but only garbled sounds came from his mouth. Alter a few moments he lapsed back into merciful unconsciousness.

Weak though it had been, the stanchion had played a part in supporting the upper decking. Now, with even that frail support gone some of the rusty plating collapsed. Narrowly missing the boy it fell.

Billy jumped away coming up against a bulkhead bringing his arms up to shield his head. When the falling plates ceased, lie crept fearfully back to his grandfather. "What'll I do?" He whispered.

James opened pain filled eyes. And with a superhuman effort of will said almost inaudibly." You got to get out Bill. No time His voice trailed off, as once more Morpheus embraced him in her merciful arms.

"But." Whimpered Billy. "I can't leave you here. I'll lift you off." And he took his grandfather behind his knees and heaved upwards.

He might well have lifted James off the spike with the new found strength lent by his fear. If he hadn't slipped on the slime underfoot. Instinctively he tightened his hold on the old man. And as he fell their combined weight forced James deeper onto the jagged metal.

The great torrent of blood that gushed from the old man. Finally extinguished the last embers of his life.

Billy curled into a ball at his grandfather's feet. He wrapped his arms tightly around his own body vainly attempting to blot out the terrible events he had witnessed that day.

It might have been hours later, or only minutes. Billy didn't know. But he gradually became aware of a new sound breaking dimly into his numbed senses. A trickling, almost musical sound, that at first he didn't recognise. Then realisation hit him. The tide was coming in.

He looked for the last time into his grandfather's dead face. And heard once more the old man's words. "No time."

The panic lurking in the back of his mind leapt forward overwhelming him. Wanting only to be away from the hulk of this long dead ship. He bolted. Scrambling through twisted wreckage. He cut his flesh in a dozen unnoticed places on protruding shards of metal that tore at him as he ran headlong past them.

He rushed past the huge boilers and darted through the hole where they had entered. God alone knew how long ago.

The sea had risen around the keel. Forcing Billy to wade through cold waist deep water. He struggled up the clinging sand. Arriving after an eternity of fear, breathless at the top.

He became calmer up there in the open. And remembered that on the way in, the pothole where the 'Southern Star' lay had taken over half an hour longer to drain than the layers of sand above her.

What was it James had said? An hour after the turn of the tidewater would be running where they were standing. Maybe he could make it after all.

He studied the sea with dwindling hope. The wind had veered. Coming now from the northeast. Angry little waves snapped at the shoreline, and streams of water were hungrily beginning to run over the sand-flats.

Ever more swiftly the sea crept in encircling the highest parts of the swatch-ways collapsing their sides like miniature landslides.

Even as he watched the sea grew angrier. White horses began to form, and the waters of the channel slapped more viciously along the edge of the sandbanks.

He ran on, retracing their earlier route, through the groping fingers of water.

At last he reached the little cove where they had left their boat. And found to his horror that the incoming tide had loosened the sand and swept it boat away.

He saw boat riding up and down among the waves a hundred yards offshore. Too far in that sea even for a man who was a strong swimmer. Let alone a boy who would be dragged down for certain.

His mother would have been bustling about for hours now. Getting up a good head of steam, ready to give her father a tongue lashing when he got home. And Billy a leathering for being fool enough to go with him after all her warnings.

Billy didn't care as long as he got home. He waved his jacket frantically in the air, and shouted as loudly as he could. All the stories he remembered about daring rescues from these murderous sandbanks came back to him.

He waved again. Someone must be on watch in the Coastguard Station or Lifeboat House. With luck they would see him and send the lifeboat.

A wave appeared from nowhere knocking him down, submerging him submerging him before he could draw his next breath. Dragging him towards the sea as it retreated. He let go of the jacket he had been waving, and desperately thrust his arms as far as he could into the now yielding sand.

With lungs empty of air and blood pounding in his head he clung to the treacherous ground. Until at last the sand filled water retreated allowing him to raise his head and snatch another breath.

Staggering to his feet Billy lurched through swirling knee-deep water, and headed for the pathetic remnants of the old wooden ship.

He reached them, and grabbed the tallest protruding rib just as another wave came sweeping whitely over the sandbanks. The wave rose up as it reached the shallows. Crashed over his head, the weight of its water threatening to tear his arms from their sockets.

The sea didn't retreat so far this time. Instead it appeared almost like a friendly dog that towers its head before playfully charging in.

Suddenly it was no longer playful. Rollers swept across the sands. One after another they came. Buffeting him unmercifully as they tried to rip him from his precarious refuge.

Billy scanned the sea. A cables length away he saw a Lugger beating for home on a nor'- west-northerly course. By the colour of its lugsail he recognised it as the 'Cormorant' a vessel belonging to his cousins the Fosters.

"Over here," he yelled taking one hand off the timber he was clinging to and waving frantically. "I'm over here. On the sands." But the surging sea threatened to tear him from his perch and he was forced to use both hands.

Remorselessly the Lugger sailed on. Her crew deaf to his cries, were too busy to pay more than scant attention to the rollers breaking off their starboard bow.

Billy managed to yell out twice more before the sea cut him off. He struggled in vain to keep his head above the swirling waters dragging him down. The current beat him against the sandy bottom, knocking the remaining air from his lungs.

He wanted to scream, but water was in his nose and mouth. Bursting his eardrums, filling his lungs, pouring down his throat.

Silencing him as he was drawn away into its depths.

His oxygen starved brain, flashed colours as its neurons disconnected. From among the flashing colours his mother appeared smiling.

As the currents carried him across the sands towards deep water, the last thing Billy did was smile back at her.