Keeton reached towards the light with his fingers and felt the gap. It was perhaps a quarter of an inch wide, maybe more, maybe less. He allowed his fingers to travel down the gap and at the bottom he found the reason why the door had not shut completely: a spanner was wedged tightly between door and frame. There was no possibility of moving it even if he had wished to do so.
Keeton straightened up and called: ‘Johnnie!’
The snoring continued without pause and he could see Bristow at the far end of the magazine, a bulky outline in the gloom that was now slightly relieved by the light shining through the crack. He moved towards Bristow and stirred him with his foot. Bristow awoke suddenly and began to lash out with arms and legs, yelling wildly, apparently still in the grip of some nightmare. Keeton drew back out of range.
‘Stop that noise, you idiot. I want your help.’
Bristow suddenly noticed what Keeton had noticed a few minutes earlier. ‘There’s some light coming in.’
‘You’re observant, Johnnie, very observant indeed. Can you observe where it’s coming from?’
‘The door. It must be open. We’ll be able to get out.’
Keeton damped his hopes. ‘Not so fast, Johnnie. The door’s still jammed. There’s a little gap because there’s a spanner in the works, but we aren’t out yet. We’ll need a lever.’
‘What about a rifle?’
‘Could try it. But I doubt whether a rifle barrel would go into that crack.’
The rifles were clipped up against the side of the magazine. Keeton took one of them and tried to push the muzzle into the crack. As he had feared, it was too thick to go in.
‘We shall have to make a start with something thinner.’
‘I saw a marlinespike in here the other day‚’ Bristow said. ‘The P.O. was using it to open an ammo box.’
‘That could be the tool – if it’s still here.’
It took them nearly half an hour to find it; it had rolled between two of the boxes. In fact it was Keeton who found it, Bristow having already given up in despair. Keeton prodded him with the sharp end of the spike.
‘Here it is, Johnnie. Now we’ll get to work.’
He pushed the spike into the crack and tried to lever the door open. There was no apparent movement. He turned to Bristow. ‘Lend a hand, can’t you?’
Bristow came with his soft body and his fat hands and together they hauled on the lever. The door opened slightly, but as soon as they released the pressure it moved back into its former position.
‘We’ve got to get the rifle in‚’ Keeton said. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, and already Bristow was dripping. ‘We can get more leverage with the rifle.’
‘Anyway‚’ Bristow said, with hope in his voice again, ‘we shifted it.’
Keeton picked up the rifle and leaned it against the door with the muzzle resting on the gap just below the marlinespike.
‘Now then. Again. Heave.’
Again they hauled on the spike. Again the door opened slightly. The rifle barrel went a short distance into the gap, but then the door closed and squeezed it out.
‘Take a breather‚’ Keeton said. ‘We’ll do it next time.’
He was the younger man but he had taken command as though by right. Bristow conceded him that right. Bristow was panting.
‘Lord, I could do with a drink. I’m parched.’
‘You’ll get one when we’ve done this job. Now.’
This time the rifle slid fully into the gap and was gripped there as in a vice. Keeton dropped the spike and took hold of the butt of the rifle.
‘We’ll need wedges or we’ll lose what we gain. Got any ideas?’
‘There’s the Lewis gun and the other rifle. We could take the butt off the Lewis.’
‘Get it,’ Keeton said.
The Lewis gun was in a wooden case. Bristow lifted it out and released the butt. He carried the butt and the second rifle to the door.
‘Put them down there‚’ Keeton said, ‘where I can push them in with my foot.’
Bristow obeyed, laying the improvised wedges in position at the bottom of the door.
‘All right. Now heave again.’
The rifle was a much more efficient lever than the spike because it was longer. The door shifted appreciably when they put their weight on it. There was a grinding sound of metal on metal. The resistance was still there, trying to force the door shut again, but Keeton managed to push the Lewis butt into the opening and they had consolidated their gain. A flow of clean air came through this wider gap and they sucked it gratefully into their lungs.
Another heave and the rifle butt was lying beside the butt of the Lewis gun. The gap had been doubled. Keeton leaned against the door, breathing heavily.
‘We need another wedge, Johnnie.’
‘No more guns.’
‘Bring one of those shells then.’
Bristow brought the shell and they levered it into the gap. And so they fought the door, sweating and panting; and in the end the door defeated them.
They had enlarged the opening to about seven or eight inches. Through it they could see some twisted iron, a smashed ventilator, and beyond an arc of sea and sky. Freedom was tantalizingly near and yet beyond their reach; for at this point the door had stopped again, resisting all their efforts to lever it further.
Keeton dropped the rifle. ‘Call it a day. No use wrenching our guts out any more. As far as that door is concerned, we’ve had it.’
Bristow slumped down on a box and put his head in his hands. His body was shaking, possibly from exertion, possibly from the bitterness of his disappointment after such high hopes of escape.
‘We’re here for good now. We’ll never get out.’
Keeton said nothing. He leaned against the wall of the magazine and his head ached. His whole body ached, as though it had been through a concrete mixer.
‘We might as well have saved our energy‚’ Bristow said. He leaped up in a sudden frenzy, grabbed the rifle and swung it against the door. The door clanged sullenly and did not move.
‘That won’t do any good‚’ Keeton said.
Bristow dropped the rifle and began to weep.
Chapter Four
Derelict
Keeton looked at the gap. Through it a wedge of sunlight made its way, laying a golden finger on the boxes of ammunition. Keeton looked at the gap and then down at his own lean body. It might be possible. It would be a tight squeeze, but it might just be possible.
He began to strip off his shirt and trousers.
Bristow stared at him. ‘What are you up to now? Have you gone crazy?’
‘I’m going to try to get out.’
Bristow gripped Keeton’s arm. ‘You aren’t going to slip out and leave me here. You know I couldn’t get through that hole. I don’t want to be left alone in here. You got to stay with me.’
Keeton shook off Bristow’s hand. ‘Don’t be a fool, man. If I get out I can do something about getting you out, too.’
‘That’s a promise, Charlie? You won’t go off and leave me?’
‘Where in hell d’you think I’d go? The buses don’t run on this route.’
Bristow still seemed reluctant to let Keeton out of his sight, but he saw the force of the argument.
‘You’ll help me out then? You’ll do that before anything else?’
‘Don’t fret yourself‚’ Keeton said. ‘I’ll do it. But first I’ve got to get myself out.’
He eased himself into the gap sideways and the harsh metal tore at his naked skin. He managed to get nearly halfway through and there he became stuck fast with the iron pressing hard against his ribs so that he could hardly breathe.
‘Push me, Johnnie‚’ he gasped. ‘Push me.’
He felt Bristow’s soft hands on his left shoulder, pressing him into the gap. The metal ground into his flesh and blood began to flow. He was in agony.
‘Push, damn you, Johnnie! Push!’
The pressure of Bristow’s
hands increased. They were like big rubber pads thrusting him into the jaws of a vice, and the constriction of his chest was almost unbearable. His right arm and his right leg were free and he could feel the hot sun on them; but struggle as he might, the rest of his body would not follow.
‘Harder, Johnnie, harder. Put your weight into it.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you‚’ Bristow said.
‘Hurt me and be damned to it.’ Nothing that Bristow did now could increase the agony; already it seemed as though he were being flayed. ‘Damn your eyes, Johnnie, why don’t you push?’
‘All right then‚’ Bristow said. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’
He leaned his full weight on Keeton. Keeton gave a yell of pain, and then the pressure was off and he was free; he could breathe again and above him was the wide arch of the sky. It looked good.
He had fallen on the deck and for a while he lay there, letting the pain subside, breathing deeply. Then he became aware of Bristow’s voice, a little anxious.
‘Are you all right, Charlie?’
Keeton sat up. And then he saw the man lying face downward on the deck. He saw the man and knew that it was Hagan, not only because there were crossed anchors on his sleeve but also because the man had no right ear, and that was how he had last seen Hagan, so many ages ago, with the right ear severed from his head and a wild look in his eyes.
He got to his feet and walked along the tilting deck until he could look down at Hagan. He could see now why the petty officer did not move, why he would never move again. There was a hole in the back of Hagan’s head, a hole with matted hair and congealed blood at the edges. Yet, apart from this, the body appeared to be undamaged. And this, in itself, was a small miracle, for when Keeton gazed about him he could see the havoc that the shell had wrought.
The other bodies littered the deck like so much garbage. They lay in grotesque, unnatural attitudes, some without arms or legs, some headless, some with their stomachs torn open, reeking in the sun. They were all there, all the gunners. Keeton counted them slowly and felt himself growing older as he counted, as though the ages of all these dead men were being piled one upon another and added to his own age. He would never be a boy again. He knew now that there was no dignity in death. Death was the last, bad, tasteless joke. The bodies reeked of death.
He dragged his attention away from them at last and for the first time saw what it was that was holding the door of the magazine. The shell had destroyed the gun-deck; it had ripped up the metal, torn the gun from its mounting and thrown it on its side. The blast of the explosion must have swung the barrel in a semicircle until it came to rest with the muzzle jammed against the magazine. Keeton was not surprised that he and Bristow had been unable to force the door open wider; the wonder was that they had been able to move it as far as they had.
He heard Bristow’s voice again. He had in fact been vaguely aware of the sound for some time, but it had been a meaningless intrusion upon his thoughts and he had paid it no attention. Now, suddenly, it seemed to break through the barrier of his preoccupation and impinge upon his consciousness.
‘What are you doing, Charlie? Where you got to? When are you going to get me out of here?’
At the same time Keeton became aware of his own nakedness, of the blood running down his chest and stomach. An uncontrollable trembling seized him and his legs were drained of strength. He wanted to be sick.
‘Charlie, where are you?’
‘Here, Johnnie, here.’
He walked on his rubber legs to the door of the magazine and pressed his forehead against the iron. He saw Bristow’s sweating face and the fear in Bristow’s eyes.
‘What you been doing?’
‘Numbering the gun crew‚’ Keeton said, and he could taste the bitterness in his mouth. ‘All present and correct. Cancel that. All present but not correct. Oh, God, never correct again. Never.’
‘Have you gone mad?’
Maybe he had. It was enough to send any man round the bend.
‘Hagan’s there, but they made a hole in his head and his brains leaked out.’
‘Dead?’
‘They’re all dead. Gimme my clothes.’
He was sick then, and his vomit splashed on the deck. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and the bitter taste was still on his tongue.
Bristow pushed his clothes through the gap and he put them on.
‘What’s holding the door?’ Bristow asked.
‘It’s the gun. The barrel’s been thrown round this way. That must have been one hell of an explosion.’
‘Can you shift it?’
‘My name’s Charles Keeton, not Hercules.’
Bristow began to whine. ‘You can’t just leave me in here. You’ve got to do something.’
‘All right‚’ Keeton said. ‘Just hold your yap.’
He examined the gun barrel resting against the door. There was certainly some weight there, but perhaps he could find a way of shifting it.
‘I’ll have to find some tackle‚’ he told Bristow. ‘You sit tight for a while.’
‘What else can I do?’
‘You have a point there‚’ Keeton admitted.
He walked to the head of the ladder leading down to the afterdeck on the starboard side. Except for the list the deck looked normal; but the port bulwarks were dipping low, and now and then a wave would slop over and gurgle away down the scuppers. There was not a man to be seen.
Between the two hatches was a small deck-house which had been used to store gear, and Keeton hoped that in this he would find what he needed. He went down the ladder with one hand on the rail to steady himself, and the unnatural silence of the ship was awe-inspiring. Only the occasional slap and gurgle of water broke the silence; that and the subdued whining of wind in the rigging that was like a faint echo of the storm that had passed.
Keeton reached the deck-house and turned the catches of the door. He pulled the door open and hooked it back and stepped into the deck-house. Here, amongst a jumble of equipment, he found what he wanted, a small tackle consisting of a rope and two blocks with hooks attached. With this and another length of rope slung over his shoulder he made his way back along the sloping deck to the poop.
Bristow heard him coming and began to shout at once. ‘Where you been? I thought you was never coming back. You don’t hurry yourself on my account, do you?’
‘If you don’t hold your yap‚’ Keeton said, ‘I’ll let you stay in there and you can eat the ammunition.’
Bristow subsided at once. ‘I didn’t mean no offence, Charlie. I know you’re doing your best.’
With the help of the rope he had brought Keeton fastened one of the blocks to the muzzle of the gun, then ran the other block out until he could fix it to a stanchion. When he tightened the pulley rope he was able to put pressure on the barrel and he knew that if he could pull hard enough the barrel must slide away from the door. The question was, had he the strength to do it?
He set his feet firmly on the deck and hauled. The rope slid through the sheaves and became taut. He pulled harder and the barrel made a small grinding noise. It moved perhaps an inch and then stopped. Keeton rested for a few seconds and tried again. The barrel did not move.
Bristow’s anxious voice came from the magazine. ‘How’s it going?’
‘It isn’t‚’ Keeton said. He dropped the rope and examined the gun. At once it became apparent that the barrel would not move because the traversing wheel was jammed in a tangle of twisted metal. To pull the barrel away from the door it would have been necessary to rotate the entire gun mounting, and this, although tilted to one side, was still firmly joined to the pedestal. It was a task that no one man, even with the aid of tackle, could hope to perform.
He shouted to Bristow: ‘I’m going to fetch a hammer.’
He went again to the deck-house on the after-deck and found a 14-pound sledge and brought it back to the poop. Half a dozen accurate blows were enough to smash the traversing wheel of th
e gun and release the gear. With that accomplished he dropped the sledge-hammer and returned to the tackle.
‘Now‚’ he muttered. ‘Now, you swine.’
The barrel moved so easily that he almost lost his balance.
‘Come out, Johnnie‚’ he shouted. ‘Come out while you’ve got the chance.’
Bristow came out. Keeton let the rope go and the barrel swung back to its former position, slamming the door shut with a hollow clang.
Keeton said: ‘Well, you’re out, and you had an easier job than I did. Now you won’t have to feed on cordite. But that’s only the first of our worries settled.’ He looked at the sea around them. It stretched away to the distant circle of the horizon, an undulating desert of water with no sign of a ship or a boat or a raft anywhere upon its shifting surface. ‘We’ve got other problems now.’
Bristow was staring at the corpses and his face looked yellow. ‘Oh, God! Oh, my God!’
‘We’ll have to get them overboard‚’ Keeton said. ‘They’re beginning to stink.’
Bristow drew away fearfully, his eyes wide with horror and his lips trembling. ‘I’m not touching them. I couldn’t do it.’
Keeton took three paces and gripped Bristow’s shirt. ‘The job’s got to be done and you’ll help me do it.’ He released Bristow and turned away. ‘But we’ll get something into our bellies first. Maybe we’ll feel better then.’
‘I couldn’t eat nothing‚’ Bristow said. He kept glancing at the dead men and then away again. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Be sick then and get rid of it. I’ve been sick.’
‘You have?’ Bristow looked surprised at this admission. ‘I thought you—’
The Golden Reef (1969) Page 5
