“It would have been four years next month.”
“And how old was your husband at his death?”
“Forty-two.”
“And where did the two of you reside?”
“In Greenwich, Connecticut.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell us of your last months with your husband?”
Allison Manning took a deep breath and spoke in a clear, well-modulated voice. “My husband and I left Newport, Rhode Island, last May and crossed the Atlantic to Plymouth, in England, just the two of us. Paul had had the yacht built in Finland and fitted out with some extra equipment after it was delivered to Newport. From Plymouth, we cruised up the English Channel to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, then crossed the Channel and cruised the coast of Brittany, in France. We made a long passage to Bilbao, in northern Spain, then went on to Lisbon and Gibraltar. In the Mediterranean, we cruised the Greek islands and the Balearics and then sailed out to Madeira and the Canary Islands. We called at Las Palmas and did some refitting there, then at Puerto Rico, a port on the southernmost island of the Canaries, and our last port of call before starting across the Atlantic, bound for Antigua.” She took a sip of water from a glass poured by the coroner.
“Please go on,” Sir Winston said.
Allison Manning looked a little sadder. “We sailed southwest from the Canaries down to the latitude of Antigua, then turned west. We had picked up the trade winds by then, and we were making good time. We were ten days out of Puerto Rico, over halfway to Antigua, when the incident occurred.”
“Tell us about the incident, with as much detail as you can recall.”
“It was on the early afternoon of the tenth day,” she said. “We had been in and out of squalls, then the wind dropped, and we were very nearly becalmed. The weather had been very changeable. We had been down to short sail in the squalls, using a roller-reefing headsail, which was like a big window blind, and when Paul began to unroll the sail in the light winds, the top swivel of the roller-reefing gear separated into two parts. The sail fell down with the bottom part, and the top part of the gear remained at the top of the mast, attached to the halyard. I hope I’m making this clear.”
Sir Winston turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, do you understand?”
The jury nodded as one man.
“Please go on, Mrs. Manning,” Sir Winston said.
“This wasn’t the first time this had happened,” she said, “and it meant that someone had to go up the mast and pull the top part of the swivel down to deck level so that it could be reattached to the bottom part.”
“And who went up the mast?”
“I did.”
“Was this usual? Did your husband often send you up the mast at sea?”
“No. I had done that a couple of times before, but when we were tied up alongside in port. It was easier for Paul to hoist me up the mast with a winch than for me to hoist him. He is…was a large man. On this occasion he wanted to go himself, but he had woken up not feeling well that morning and was obviously not well. He had a thing about making good time at sea, and he didn’t want to wait until he felt better, so I said I would go up the mast.”
“And how did you accomplish that?”
“Paul lowered the mainsail; I got into the bosun’s chair, which is a canvas sling, and Paul winched me to the top of the mast on the main halyard, then cleated the line while I hauled the genoa halyard down to deck level. There wasn’t much wind, but there was a sea running from the last squall, and it was pretty uncomfortable at the top of the mast. I called to Paul to lower me to the deck, and that was when I saw him, sitting on a cockpit seat, holding his arm, near the shoulder.” For the first time, her voice quavered. “His left arm.”
“What happened then?”
She seemed to struggle to keep control of herself. “I called to him again, and he looked up at me. Then he seemed to be in terrible pain, and he sort of just lay down on his side on the cockpit seat.” Tears appeared on her cheeks now. “I was very frightened. The wind began to get up again, and with no sail up, the boat was rolling very badly. I continued to call out to him in panic—panic that I was stuck at the top of the mast, and panic that he seemed to be having a heart attack, and I couldn’t help him.” Now she began to cry in earnest. Sutherland stood without speaking while she produced a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Finally in control again, she continued. “A few minutes passed—I don’t know how long—then Paul slid off the seat onto the cockpit sole. He just lay there, facedown. It was obvious that he was unconscious; he just sort of flopped about when the boat rolled.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I just clung to the mast and cried.”
“For how long?”
“A long time. Two hours, maybe three. I wasn’t wearing a watch. Finally the sun got low in the sky; I realized that Paul wasn’t going to help me, and that I had to do something to help myself.”
“And what did you do?”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I hugged the mast as tightly as I could, then I slipped out of the bosun’s chair and began sliding down the mast, except I slid a lot faster than I meant to. I went down very quickly until I came to rest on the crosstrees, in a sitting position. That hurt, and I was sort of stunned for a minute, so I just stopped and collected myself for a few minutes. The rolling wasn’t quite as bad, since I was farther down the mast. Finally I got up enough nerve to go the rest of the way down. I still don’t know why I didn’t fall and hurt myself.”
“Then you went to help your husband?”